Revelations of Men -- GiftFic
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Rattled to the core by Ryan Smithers' ageless and familiar eyes, Montgomery Burns discovers he can no longer find solace at his plant or estate. He flees. When Waylon is confronted by the son he never knew he had, he realizes there's only one place Monty could be: his childhood home. The abandoned plantation of long dead, but truly not forgotten tyrant: Colonel Wainwright Burns.
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission.

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

 _This is a giftfic for Gav-Imp of Deviant Art, who has once again given me the honor and privilege of bringing her character Ryan Smithers into my nuclear world. This is the second piece in a series featuring this cool young man. For those of you unfamiliar with Ryan Smithers, you may wish to read the previous piece in this series: "The Inception of Ryan Smithers."_

 _In addition to Ryan and Waylon getting to know each other, we learn much about the back history of Charles Montgomery Burns._

 _Who was the shadowy figure that raised him? This scarcely mentioned Colonel Wainwright Burns?_

 _Through this, dear Reader, you will find out._

 _I've greatly enjoyed this piece. It reminds me more, in tone, of Nuclear Attraction than some of my later works. I was heavily inspired by more gothic and early American literature: in such, it is my hope not merely to tell a story, but to evoke a mood, and I hope you, dear Reader, enjoy the experience._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

The first rays of sunlight were beginning to cut through the fog. The nights had been refreshing lately, a pleasant break from the oppressive summer heat that had smothered the town only days before. A cool breeze blew in the open window, carrying with it scents of grassy fields and the notes of birdsong. Waylon Smithers yawned, stretched, and reached for his cell phone on the nightstand, a phone which doubled as his alarm clock. He was an early riser by choice, setting up before daybreak to hit the gym at the manor, or perhaps swim a few laps before heading to work.

Waylon Smithers took the phone and squinted at it, closing one eye. It was already seven. His alarm should've gone off two hours ago. If he didn't start moving now, he'd be late. Quickly he sat up, pushing the sheets back, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I overslept, Monty," he remarked, reaching for his glasses.

No response came from the other side of the bed.

"Monty?" Smithers asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Aside from him, the bed was empty.

Waylon wasn't completely shocked.

It wasn't unusual for Montgomery Burns to keep odd hours. The man regarded sleep as a hassle of necessity, as opposed to a relaxing process. He'd frequently complained over the years that genius and sleep were natural enemies, and if he had his way, he would stave off sleep indefinitely. Waking up to an empty bed, especially this late in the morning was hardly a cause for concern.

Waylon hastily showered, shaved, and got dressed for the day's affairs. He donned a pair of grey slacks, white button up shirt, and an olive blazer. A purple bow-tie completed the ensemble. It was essentially the same style he'd worn for years. While he'd been working abroad, he'd elected for a different style, and at the time he'd found he enjoyed it. Upon returning to Springfield however, Waylon had to confess his traditional workplace fashion was still a matter of habit. It was comfortable though. Waylon liked his routine.

He hurried downstairs to see if Burns was finishing up breakfast. Most mornings, they traveled to work together, Waylon selecting a fine vehicle from the extensive collection of cars Monty was so proud of.

The table clearly hadn't been used this morning. There wasn't even a hint of breakfast on the air. There was, however, a sealed envelope sitting at Waylon's place. Curious, he walked over and picked it up. He slit the paper open, and pulled out a single folded sheet. The letter opened, addressing him by his last name.

Burns tended to call Waylon by his first and last names interchangeably. While Waylon preferred his first name, years of being known merely as 'Smithers' had rounded off the edges of his surname. Smithers… Waylon… from Monty Burns either was equally fine. In all other cases, he asked that his friends call him Waylon. Burns was the exception, the one friend who still called him 'Smithers.'

Waylon began to read.

 _My Dear Smithers,_

 _Recent circumstances have inspired me to take a sabbatical for such time as till I see fit to return. I know your apprehensions will no doubt be raised keen on this, so allow me to put them to rest as best I can. To address your first worry: no, I am not dying; I still have many more years left. Put that thought out of your head. It's a foolish worry for you to possess._

 _In your subsequent fears, for I know how your mind prioritizes its concerns: all matters of legality have been sterling, and there is no trouble, civic or criminal in which I find myself. I hazard to say things have been better than average, if I dare to be so bold in that matter!_

 _And finally: all is well with the plant. I daresay you've taken the old girl from the dregs she'd become mired in, and under your steady guidance I see nothing but success for both of you! You've done well, Smithers, your recent undertakings have been laudable, even if I don't always make my approval common knowledge._

 _So, as best I can, I hope to have allayed your fears. Do not expect me to return by a certain date. Neither a week nor a fortnight might prove sufficient; or, conversely, they may drag to long and set me hastening back into your arms once again. Fear not, my dear friend. I simply need some time with the solitude of my own thoughts; a position any man can understand._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Charles Montgomery Burns_

Waylon wrinkled his face and folded the letter back into its envelope. It wasn't like Burns hadn't taken off before. His absences rarely lasted more than a few days. Montgomery Burns was a man who enjoyed his privacy.

In the past, it used to bother Waylon no end, especially when he had been nothing more than Burns' personal assistant. From time to time, his boss would be unexpectedly absent. Suddenly thrown from the position of loyal business clerk to running a nuclear power plant without preamble, Waylon struggled to learn the role of acting CEO on the fly. The first few times had left him mentally and physically exhausted, sleeping, close to tears, on the couch in Burns' office.

Over the years though, things had changed. Not Burns' erratic behavior and unexpected departures, but definitely in Waylon's ability to handle it.

These days, he could step deftly into the role of executive, handling all Burns' affairs with a casual grace and efficiency that made him both respected and feared by his employees. He had a reputation, admittedly deserved, for being more ruthless than Burns. There was an incident a few years ago where he might have sic'd a wolverine or two on a pack of slacker employees. While the wolverines had all been safely returned from whence they came, and the hounds returned, it had not been forgotten by the staff at the plant.

Any time Waylon Smithers was at the helm, people tended to tread very cautiously. Waylon found he didn't mind that at all. If anything, it gave him time to get ahead on the routine projects. He shrugged his shoulders, stuck the letter into his lunch bag, and headed down to the garage.

Any day without Burns would be a lonely day to be sure, but nothing beyond would he could handle. The morning would pass slowly, but it would pass nonetheless.

* * *

After he arrived, Waylon took up his post in the executive office, setting his day bag behind Burns' massive desk, and having the secretary bring over a list of the day's agenda. There was almost nothing scheduled.

Waylon rose and faced the windows overlooking the cooling towers and river beyond, hands clasped behind his back. He'd never asked to run the plant, never particularly had a desire to. _Every great leader needs a great follower_ , he thought as he watched the steam rising from the curved towers in the early summer morning, the surrounding air still cool in the early sun.

It was his pleasure to follow, to be a second in command; advisor to the king, but never a king himself. _More of a queen_ , he allowed himself a faint chuckle at the private joke before his thoughts resumed their somber narrative. He wasn't as surprised as he usually was by Burns' strange absence.

Montgomery Burns had returned from Chicago, Illinois scarcely three days ago. A business trip he'd taken to meet with several other business owners in the industry. He'd also invited his son, Larry, to join him; going to far as to pay for Larry's lodging right downtown.

Waylon wondered if something had happened between him and Larry. Burns had been in a most disagreeable mood ever since he returned. His disposition alternating between hostile and withdrawn, seemingly at the flip of a coin.

Waylon had seen Burns' strange episodes before, had put little stock in it. The man would settle down eventually. Still, concerned, Waylon had tried gently to dig answers from his partner. Summoning up his courage, Waylon joined Burns in the man's private study after the man returned. Waylon asked if it had been something Larry, Burns' son, had said or did in Chicago.

 _Larry be damned, he's the least of my concerns right now. And you! Get out, Smithers! Leave me now and trouble me no more with your ceaseless inquisition!_

Waylon Smithers knew better to press the issue. He'd hoped, over time, Burns' mood would settle down. If anything, it had intensified over the next day, and Burns refused to leave study. He would sit in the dark, blinds drawn and a fire roaring at the hearth, despite the heat of the season. By the third day, he'd stopped going to the plant. _Bah! That place? That atom mill be damned!_ he snarled at Smithers. _Deus or devil take it all! Or run it yourself, Smithers, if you're so inclined. I care nothing. Do as you will._

Then, last night, Burns' mood had changed yet again. Ironically, Burns had been in fairly good spirits last night, even racking a few jokes over dinner. Waylon had hoped whatever tempest swirled in the brain of Monty Burns was blowing itself out.

In retrospect, it was probably just because Burns had plans to leave.

 _He had an escape planned, that's what made him so cheerful_ , Waylon thought.

And thus, Waylon Smithers had assumed command of the power plant yet once again. At least these days, the role came more easily to him. Perhaps, he mused as he surveyed the scene below, he had more in common with his father than he'd known. The man built the place, well, designed and directly oversaw the construction; if not built with his own hands.

It wasn't taking control of the nuclear plant that concerned him.

The speed at which Burns' moods fluctuated since he returned from Chicago that worried him. His beloved Monty Burns was old, Smithers knew. Born in 1881, Burns had outlived the peers of his youth; and some of his middle age as well. How long, honestly, could the human mind stay sharp? Waylon didn't like to entertain the idea of Burns mind or body faltering, but he couldn't deny the possibility.

Waylon unclasped his hands, and drummed his fingers anxiously on the gold pocketwatch at his right hip. Time. Ceaseless and relentless. Were these the beginning signs that Monty Burns' long life had run its course? The first skipped second here, a hint of dementia there? Waylon had assumed he'd have many more years with his husband, now he wasn't so sure. Burns' temper and behavior as of late was like nothing he'd seen before. Aside from that though, Burns seemed well enough physically. He took his meals, and tended to his personal affairs without assistance.

His memory was as acute as always.

Burns didn't fit the textbook signs of dementia.

Then again, Waylon thought pensively, there was very little 'textbook' about Charles Montgomery Burns.

Waylon took his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. Still early, but it was warming quickly outside. The steam was no longer visible from the cooling towers. He tucked the lion-faced watch back in his suit pants and shook his head. It would hardly do to keep letting himself get distracted. He had a job to do, a plant to run, and a compliment of employees that depended on him to lead them.

He turned from the window and sat down purposefully at the massive desk. His desk. At least for now. He might as well get comfortable. Waylon reached for the daily roster report, and began.

* * *

The day had passed quicker than he would've expected. When he finally glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see it read four thirty. Almost time to leave. He quickly packed his bag, eager to get back to the manor. The odds that Burns would be back so soon were slim, but Waylon couldn't help his optimism. He slung his bag over his shoulder, locking the office behind him.

An easy jaunt down a flight of stairs through the main hall to the executive parking lot. He tossed his bag into the passenger seat of his Porsche, and quickly darted home.

He drove quickly, lost in thought and anticipation, scarcely noticing the details of the familiar route from the power plant to the manor.

He barely slowed as he came down Mammon drive, hitting the remote for the gate as soon as he was in range. Silently, the wrought iron doors swung open. He whipped his car through them before they'd even finished opening. Without hesitation he swung up the curved drive in front of the manor, barely bothering to turn his car off before leaping out.

In his mind's eye, Monty would be there waiting for him. Though it had only been an afternoon, he couldn't wait. He was up the front steps in a heartbeat without so much as a backward glance.

Had Waylon Smithers bothered to look over his shoulder, he would've seen a young man piloting an Indian motorcycle up the drive behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:**

 _This story was rated M because of adult themes and concepts; similar to "_ Nuclear Attraction" _or "_ Consequences of Fission _."_

* * *

The young man, Ryan Smithers, had been waiting at the east gate, debating with himself what to do next.

When the gates swung open and the owner's Porsche roared in, the Ryan wasted no time in following.

He pulled his motorcycle to a stop behind the Porsche, turned off the engine, and put the kickstand down. He shrugged off his helmet, revealing short black hair.

His face was young, and vaguely familiar. His hazel eyes scanned the scene in front of him. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and tightened his lips. Larry hadn't been kidding when he said this place was huge. The young man tossed his helmet casually onto the seat of his bike, and followed the path his father ( _did he really just get a glimpse of his father?_ ) had cut up the front stairs just moments ago.

Outside of the massive double door he paused. Technically, this was illegal entering. He hadn't exactly been invited. The last thing Ryan wanted was a tangle with the cops. _The largest house on Mammon Lane, you can't miss it_ , Ryan heard Larry's voice in his memory. Well, there had been several large houses on Mammon Lane, but this was by far the largest and most impressive. Dominating the hill and surrounding landscape, bordered by a high stone wall, there was no question in Ryan's mind that he'd come to the right place.

He'd arrived in from a long three day drive, coming from Chicago out east. It hadn't been Ryan's original plan to travel this far north, to Springfield. His intent had been to follow Route 66 to the ocean. Then he didn't know what he'd do next.

His mind was still a jumbled mess of feelings and memories. His mother's death was still raw in his mind. Caught in that odd stage between a boy and a man, Ryan Smithers struggled to find himself. He was nineteen. It seemed too young to be on his own without a family, but too old to ask for help. There was, he decided, no good age to lose one's mother. No matter how old, or young, one might be. Unless you were too young to remember, he thought. Maybe then it would be okay. Or, he wondered as he made his way up the steps, perhaps there'd always be that sense of loss.

Regardless, there was this man here, the guy in the fancy car that hadn't even bothered to glance in his rear-view mirror. Ryan's mouth had a bitter taste to it. Bile, or maybe even anger.

If what Larry Burns had said was right, this man here was Ryan's father?

If that were the case, the man was a complete asshole who abandoned his pregnant wife, leaving her to raise Ryan alone.

If Larry had been wrong, then he, Ryan, was going to look like the biggest idiot on the face of the planet. Breaking onto a stranger's property? Accusing the resident of being his father? It was enough to make Ryan turn tail and run… if he didn't think that he was probably locked in.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his midnight blue jeans and scowled.

 _Just push the doorbell, sissy_ , he snarled at himself. _It's a doorbell. It's meant to be rung_.

Ryan's chest tightened with every heartbeat. He couldn't breathe. Ryan had heard of panic attacks, but never truly understood what it felt like. Well, he reasoned, this was either a panic attack or he was dying. He reached out his right hand, watching it tremble. Muttering a curse and a prayer in one, he closed his eyes and pressed the button.

Deep within the palatial house, he heard a series of deep chimes ring. He winced, and wished he could make himself invisible.

Now came the wait.

Ryan wasn't sure which was worse, that no one would come to the door; or that someone actually might. He swallowed, or tried to, but his throat was too tight. He licked his lips and shuffled his feet on the verge of bolting. Or throwing up.

A shadow passed behind the curtain of the sidelight window beside the door.

Ryan raised his head as he heard a bolt draw back, and the knob turn. He took as deep a breath as he could, drew back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. He'd been rehearsing this speech in his head for the last two thousand miles. _I'm Ryan Smithers. I believe you're my father. If that's the case, I want some answers._ Three little sentences, truly, how hard could that be?

The door opened and the man he'd only seen before from Larry's photograph regarded him coolly.

Yes, that was the same man, all right. The ash grey hair in a short crew cut, the brown eyes and full lips. Medium height, not overly tall, but square shouldered and deliberately taking an imposing stance.

The man regarded Ryan up and down, before lowering his brows accusingly. "Who are you and why are you here? If you've come to sell cookies or a subscription to some magazine, I'll have you know that Mister Burns and I have no tolerance for salesmen, so you best be on your way." He stared hard at Ryan, expression devoid of warmth.

Ryan tried to say the words he'd planned for days. All that came out was an inarticulate noise. "Guh…" he struggled.

The grey-haired man, Waylon Smithers, gave a contemptuous thought. "Just as I thought. You'd best leave before I release the hounds." He turned and began to shut the door.

Ryan reached out, slamming his palm against the solid wood, halting the process. "No. I don't think so," he replied, a surge of anger giving rise to his voice. Dogs didn't scare Ryan, but he was never the sort to take kindly to threats. "Mitty tried that with me once. Set his pit bulls on me. He got me the first time. The second time, I maced them." Ryan's free hand slipped back to his left pocket where he kept a small aerosol can of pepper spray. "Go ahead and set the dogs on me. Just try it." He lowered his head and glared at the man in front of him.

"I'll just call the police then, simple as that," the grey-haired man replied, disinterested. He shoved at the door.

Ryan didn't budge. "No. I'm not here to see this Burns guy. I'm here to see _you_. We need to talk."

Waylon paused, pursing his lips. "What could I possibly have to talk about with a boy like you?"

Ryan looked away for a second, then met Waylon's brown eyes. "My name is Ryan Smithers. You're my dad."

Of all the possible responses the other man could've given, everything Ryan had been planning for, he never expected this. The man laughed, actually threw his head back and laughed. Even releasing the door as he did. Ryan took that moment to slide himself further into the doorway.

"Oh, I'm sorry my boy," Waylon said as he wiped his eyes. "Out of all the things I've heard in my life, that's got to be the best." He gave Ryan a patronizing smile, almost pitying. "I don't know who put you up to this, and I'm sorry they did, but there's no way you could possibly be my son." Waylon chuckled and shook his head. "It's simply not possible."

Ryan leaned in the doorway and folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah?" he challenged. "Tell that to Lydia."

Waylon froze in mid-laugh, the smile draining from his face. "What did you say?" he whispered, taking a step back.

"Lydia Martin Smithers. Your ex-wife. My _mom!_ She's dead." Ryan had moved his way into the foyer, just within the front door. He squared his back against a wall next to an expensive looking vase on a pedestal.

Waylon shrunk back further, clasped a hand to his mouth and shook his head. "No," he whispered as the color left his cheeks. "That's not possible." He curled against himself for a moment, but just as quickly straightened up. Waylon raised his head, brown eyes hardening. "Nice try, kid. But anyone with the internet could find my ex-wife's name. It's going to take more than that to convince me."

Ryan reached into his wallet and pulled out his driver's license. Without a word he thrust it at Waylon.

Waylon took it and read over the details. Then he gave a snort of contempt. "Nope," Waylon said, shaking his head as he handed the ID back. "It says here you're twenty-two. You would've been about three years old when Lydia and I divorced." Smithers smirked. "I'm sure I would've remembered having a toddler about our house."

Ryan took the ID back and mentally kicked himself. He'd given Waylon the one Mitty had made. A forgery to make him appear older. He stuffed it back in his wallet and pulled out his real ID. "That's a fake one," he muttered, handing the new one over. "This is the real one."

Waylon folded his arms across his chest, regarded the license, and rolled his eyes. "Well now, that _is_ convenient, isn't it. Covering up one lie with another. I might've been born at night, but it wasn't last night." Waylon suddenly seemed to take stock of Ryan's location. "How'd you get all the way in here anyhow?"

Ryan shrugged. "I just did. You weren't paying attention. That's a shocker." His voice was heavily laced with sarcasm. "Okay, something the internet doesn't know?" He paused, thinking. "Mom was Lydia Martin Smithers. She was born in September, and she used to always wear this silver locket around her neck."

"Lucky guess," Waylon replied, rolling his shoulders. "What pictures were in the locket?"

Ryan regarded the man carefully. Waylon either had the world's best poker face, or he truly didn't care. "I don't know. She never showed me."

Waylon's voice had adopted a caustic tone similar to Ryan's. "Well isn't that convenient," he remarked, clearly unimpressed. "Is that all you have?"

Ryan bit the insides of his cheeks and looked at the floor, at his shoes, at the combination of hardwood and marble that made up the main entry way. It wasn't easy, being put on the spot like that. What made his mother unique? He thought about all the stuff he knew about her, each part of a life that took place after her husband had already left.

Dragging up the memories was painful. Ryan hadn't expected to face them like this. He felt tears begin to burn at his eyes. Angrily, he sniffed them back. He couldn't meet the other man's eyes. What could he even say?

Nothing, he supposed.

Maybe it had been hopeless after all.

Wistfully, he thought back to their simple apartment in Philadelphia, a homey oasis in a gritty urban world. Every Sunday, his mother would make pancakes, or sometimes waffles. Bacon, eggs… the sunlight streaming in through the thin red-and-white checkered curtains.

Ryan kicked the floor. His shoes didn't even make so much as a scuff. "Mom always made breakfast before Church. It was our time. She had all these country-theme things, like potholders with roosters on them, or this cookie jar that was shaped like a red barn. It was just plastic, nothing fancy. Every time anyone opened it, it would play this theme song." Ryan wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I used to think it was stupid, all of it. But now it's all gone. And I miss it." He wiped his nose with his other hand and clenched his jaw. He was not going to cry. Not here, dammit, and not in front of some guy he'd just met.

 _Men don't cry_ , he berated himself.

A voice, the man across the entryway from him. "Green acres," he began softly. "The song was 'Green Acres.'" Waylon leaned against the wall heavily, a look of remembrance passing behind his eyes. He offered a weak laugh. "I used to hate it too."

Ryan straightened immediately and jabbed a finger accusingly at Waylon. "No!" he snapped. "You left! You don't get to hate anything because you ran out!"

Waylon held up his hands apologetically. "I didn't mean to… look, I'm sorry. I just… bah." He moved deeper into the foyer, and sat down heavily in a leather dressing chair.

Ryan followed, walking stiffly. Aggressively.

Waylon gestured weakly to a second chair.

Ryan regarded it as if it were a cobra. "No. I'm standing," he announced. He found himself a comfortable spot of wall beside the chair and leaned back. Involuntarily, his arms refolded themselves across his chest. He stared hard at the man sitting before him. This wasn't what he'd expected. Ryan didn't even know what he had _expected_ , but this wasn't it. He flexed his knees, and waited. He'd ridden hard for the past three days. Standing felt good.

The man across from him, his _father_ if Ryan could even call him that, finally spoke again. "How," he began slowly, raising his head out of his hands. "How is Lydia anyhow?"

Ryan felt a surge of rage. He swallowed it down. "Weren't you listening to me earlier? I said mom died."

Waylon's already pale face appeared completely bloodless. His mouth opened and shut a few times without words. Ryan remained still, unmoved by Waylon's distress. Eventually, his father's voice returned. "What… how?"

Ryan licked his lips and stared at the ceiling, then the floor. Anywhere but Waylon's face. "The Big C," he replied, trying to sound indifferent.

"Cancer?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Duh."

"Isn't there more?" Waylon pressed.

"What's there to say?" Ryan replied sharply. "She got pancreatic cancer, and we didn't even get two months after the diagnoses. So they kept her comfortable, and I paid the bills, and then she died." _And you weren't there_. The words, however unspoken, hung like a heavy accusation from Ryan's mind.

Waylon put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. Was he crying? Ryan looked away, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. _Men don't cry_ , he repeated to himself.

"And what about you?" Waylon asked, voice muffled from his hands. "Where are you staying now?"

Ryan still couldn't look at his father. "I don't," he replied, staring at his motorcycle and little trailer in the driveway.

"What do you mean, you don't?" asked Waylon.

Ryan snapped his head up. He spat his words at Waylon with all the rancor he could muster. "I mean it's me and that's everything I own, right there. And I was never going to come here because I _NEVER_ wanted to meet you, because you were never there for me. But then Larry showed me this picture and said I looked like his dad. I wasn't going to come out here, but I had to know. So I did. Now I'm here, and… and… _I don't know!_ "

Ryan's voice pitched from frustration to a mournful wail. He sagged down against the wall to a sitting position and buried his head in his arms. "I don't know, and I… don't know," he sobbed into his arms. "I'm here, but I don't have _anywhere! No one!_ " His words blended together into an incomprehensible sound of anguish. He ground his teeth together and snorted through drawn back lips. "And I'm _not_ crying," he managed to hiss out. "I'm just… angry. That's all."

* * *

Waylon Smithers looked across narrow entryway to the young man huddled on the floor. Anger? No. Waylon had been around long enough to know utter sorrow when he saw it. He started to rise, then stopped.

What could he even say or do that could comfort the boy? Anything he did would probably make the matter worse. Waylon reached behind him, and grabbed a mink throw blanket from the back of the chair. It was one Burns would occasionally wrap around himself when they went out on cold winter days.

Tentatively, he made his way over to Ryan. Ever so gently, he draped the blanket over the boy's legs and arms.

Ryan grabbed the blanket reflexively, and pulled it over his head. A young man, and yet still a boy. Nothing could quite offer a sense of safety, Waylon knew, then a cozy place to hide from the world.

Waylon rose quickly, and beckoned one of the servants to him. He whispered commands, then stepped into a nearby drawing room. Deftly, he took a sheet of paper and one of Burns' quill pens. He wrote a quick message on the paper, sprinkled it with pounce to dry the ink, then folded it onto a a little tent. By the time he got back to Ryan the boy still hadn't moved from his blanket nest, but a small plate of cookies and a glass of milk had been set out within easy reach.

Waylon added his note to the small offering, then took his leave.

If Ryan was anything like him, or his mother for that matter, he'd want to be alone. Hovering over him would only make everything worse. Waylon sighed, he knew what it was like to be without a father. His heart ached for the boy. He didn't even know what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

When Ryan finally felt like facing the world again, he raised his head and pushed the mink fur blanket off his face.

In front of him was a little platter of milk and cookies. _What am I, eight?_ he asked indignantly, frowning. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. A few seconds later he was hastily snagging a cookie and dunking it in the milk. Comfort food, he reasoned. It was okay to be curled in a blanket with cookies and milk, as long as no could see him.

He grabbed the plate, and pulled it closer for easier reach. Within a few minutes, he'd devoured everything. Ryan finished the milk in a single, long sip, and blotted his mouth the a napkin that had been set on the plate. Then he reached for the note.

It was folded like a tent, to stand up on its own. Almost like some of those place cards Ryan had seen at fancy restaurants. Not that he went to many of such establishments, but he had gone to his high school formal dance. They'd had name cards like that at the reception.

Ryan unfolded it, and began to read.

 _Dear Ryan,_

 _I'll be out on the back veranda if you want to talk. If you don't want to now, I understand. Please make yourself at home in the meantime. We can talk tomorrow if you'd prefer. If you're hungry, the kitchen is through the dining room to your left. Or we can have dinner together, it's your choice._

 _There's a room made up for you: up the stairs to the second floor, then take a right. It's the one furthest to the end, facing south. If you need anything, just let me know._

 _Please be careful if you go beyond the lawns of the main grounds. There's a lot of land, and it's possible to get lost if you're not familiar with it._

 _I'm available whenever you want to talk._

 _\- Waylon._

At the bottom was a password for the wifi and an access code for the gate. Neither mattered to Ryan at the moment. He'd sold his laptop and smartphone along with most of his possessions to pay for the expenses in his mother's final days. As for the gate code, he didn't feel like leaving quite yet. Ryan puffed his cheeks and took stock of his surroundings.

He stood in the middle of a grand entry hall, a floating staircase curving up to the floors above. Paintings and artwork adorned the walls. The floor of the entry way was marble, but beyond that it was various inlaid hardwood, and deep purple carpeting.

The entire place seemed empty, but not deserted. Ryan scooped up his plate and glass, leaving the blanket on the floor, and made his way towards where the note said the kitchen was. As he approached the swinging doors he heard the sounds of chefs, the smells of something delicious being cooked. Steak, it smelled like. And not the chicken-fried steak that he was used to. This smelled like thick, seasoned cuts of savory meat.

He set his plate and glass on the dining table, and peered in through the round window of the kitchen door.

It was a room larger than his old apartment: all gleaming tile and stainless steel. Several cooks in white jackets and aprons were busy assembling a meal. Ryan quickly ducked his head down. Unwilling to intrude, he left his dishes on the table, and scurried back to the entry hall.

Ryan put his hand on the curving banister for the stairs, and glanced up. Tentatively, he started up the stairs. At the landing to the second floor he paused, and carefully peered down the hall. No one on either side. The note said the room farthest to the end had been made up for him. Quietly he tip-toed down the long vaulted hallway. The door was shut, but a placard with his name had been hung at the center.

Ryan shook his head. It seemed surreal somehow.

Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The door swung silently inward. Ryan stepped in, and caught his breath. The cathedral ceiling arched above his head, supported by oiled wood pillars. A four-post canopy bed was positioned in the center of the room. The tall windows faced south, allowing full exposure to the afternoon sun, and a view of Mammon Lane below.

A fireplace was on the wall to his right, and to his left another set of windows faced east. On either side of the fireplace were recessed alcoves to sit, backed with full bookshelves at their sides. There was a walk-in closet, and a small private bathroom. Ryan afforded himself a moment of privacy in the bathroom, noting as he finished the little soaps and scented lotions along a shelf above the sink. Next to the shower, a bathrobe had been hung between two ridiculously fluffy towels.

"There's even a mint on the damn pillow," Ryan muttered as he walked back through the bedroom. He rolled his eyes, but grabbed the mint and popped it in his mouth nonetheless. He glanced out the window.

Waylon's Porsche was gone, but his motorcycle was still there. At the very least, he should bring a change of clothes up to his room, maybe find Waylon and ask where he should park his bike and trailer for the night.

Ryan trotted back downstairs to the main hall, and made his way through the cavernous manor to the aforementioned veranda out back.

* * *

Waylon Smithers sat with a book open in front of him. On a whim, he'd also dragged out his old high school yearbook. That sat under the open novel on the table. After trying to read the same page for the third time, he'd given up. He could hardly focus. First Burns, now this boy… no, not just some boy, his _son!_ It was enough to turn his entire world on edge, if not completely upside-down.

He took a sip of the tonic water he'd brought out. The boy, Ryan, he looked like Lydia, at least a little. But there was something about him that also reminded Waylon of the photographs he'd seen of his father, Waylon Sr., he wasn't sure what exactly, but there was a definite similarity there as well.

Waylon looked at his senior photo. Aside from his mother's dark hair, he and Ryan were spitting images of one another. Waylon sighed. Apparently it was not just Monty's bloodline that bred true. Logically, Waylon felt that he should demand proof, a paternity test, something. In his heart though, he knew he was the boy's father: an odd, but undeniable understanding.

After he left Ryan, Waylon did some brief searching on the internet. It hadn't taken him long to find a recent obituary article for his ex-wife. _Why did she keep my name_ , Waylon wondered sadly. True, he hadn't been able to keep his marriage together, but he never wanted Lydia to suffer for it. He figured she probably moved on, forgot him, settled down and raised the family she deserved.

Up till Ryan had come into his life two hours ago, he contented himself to believe Lydia alive and well. He could justify his actions believing everything had worked out for the best. The sad vision of Ryan huddled in the entryway was still fresh in his memory, was probably burned into his mind forever. Clearly, everything had not worked out happily ever after.

Waylon set his glasses on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. First Monty's sudden departure; now this. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his palm.

His silent reflection was broken by a soft, and rather uncertain voice from behind him.

"Hey…"

Waylon turned and looked up. "Hello, Ryan."

Ryan shuffled his feet nervously. He still wore the same black jeans he'd had on earlier, but he'd slipped into a clean long-sleeve tee-shirt and taken off his black vest. The white shift was snug, but not tight.

Waylon eyed the young man up and down. "Aren't you roasting in that?" he finally asked.

Ryan pulled out a chair and sat down. "It's athletic wear. Wicking. It's cool." He stretched his arms across the table and laid his head on them, watching Waylon with a sideways expression.

Waylon felt oddly self-conscious. Ryan seemed to be looking into him, rather than at him. Waylon had never considered himself a brave or confrontational individual. In public, he could present himself as such. In private, he preferred to avoid the sort of scrutiny Ryan was subjecting him to. It made him feel awkward and unpleasantly exposed. He resisted the urge to look away. It would hardly do to appear he'd been rendered insecure by his own son. He drummed his hands on the table. "So…" he began slowly.

The young man in front of him blinked slowly. "So…" Ryan echoed, matching both word and tone.

"I suppose you have a lot of questions for me."

Ryan shook his head. "No. But you've got a lot of explaining to do."

Waylon held out his hands, palms up. "What do you want me to say?"

"Why'd you do it?" Ryan left his right arm fully extended, and folded his left under his chin. He waited, patient.

"You're talking about why I left Lydia, aren't you."

The only reply was a snort.

 _Of course that's what you want to know_ , Waylon thought solemnly. "Well," he began putting his hands flat. "I just couldn't keep it together. I was under a lot of pressure. I'd recently broken my ankle in an accident at work. I was struggling to pay the bills-"

Ryan cut him off. "-So what? Lots of people go through that."

This time, Waylon looked away.

"Why couldn't you just file for a divorce, like a normal person? Why'd you have to run out that night?"

Waylon stared at the table top. He owed Ryan the truth. Why was it so hard to say? Before he could answer, Ryan had interjected again.

"I know about Burns," he said, not raising his head from the cushion of his arm.

Waylon drew his breath in sharply.

"I know that's why you left," Ryan continued.

"… How," Waylon began, grasping for words.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Mom always said you left her for someone else, but she never said 'another woman.' And when Larry said you were _his_ dad's husband… yeah, it's not hard to put _those_ pieces together." Ryan shrugged indifferently. "So… why'd you do it?"

Waylon sighed and looked out over the horizon. The sun was slowly making its way towards the western edge of the skyline, and would be dropping behind the mountains in not too much longer. "You want an answer, but there's not really a good one to give." He looked into the hazel eyes of his son. "I mean, I could give you excuses; but you're looking for something to justify…" Waylon dropped his eyes for a moment. "I can't offer that."

Ryan folded his right arm next to his left one, and nestled his chin over his wrists. "It's a shitty answer, but at least you're being honest. Still shitty though."

"Do you always use that sort of language?" Waylon asked, mildly taken back.

Ryan offered a half-shrug. "It's just how people talk."

"Not around here they don't."

"It's how I talk." Another shrug.

Waylon interlaced his fingers. "I'd prefer you didn't."

"Fine."

They sat in an awkward silence for several minutes. Waylon ran his fingertips around the edge of his glass. "Do you want anything to drink?"

Ryan shrugged.

"What about dinner?"

The same response. Waylon tried not to roll his eyes. "Well, I put in an order for steak earlier. Unfortunately, I think they probably made two out of habit. It would be a pity to see one go to waste. I'll have it brought out, and if you don't want it I'm sure the dogs will."

Waylon raised his hand and motioned towards the house. A hitherto unseen servant detached herself from the shadows of the entry and came over, giving a half bow as she did. "Elise, would you be so kind as to bring those porterhouses out here? Oh, and a glass of water for Ryan here." Waylon gestured to Ryan. "Unless you want something else?"

Ryan raised his head and looked torn between acting mature, and indulging a whim. "Do you have, um, chocolate milk?" he asked both hopeful and shy at the same time.

Elise smiled warmly, her face crinkling. "I believe we can accommodate that, young master Smithers." She gave a half bow, and headed off.

Ryan drew his lips tight. Waylon could see the question forming. "I didn't see the point in denying anything," he admitted. "I don't have any idea what your plans are, but if you're going to be here, I'll see to it you're treated like any other member of the family would be."

Ryan watched Elise go. "She's polite," he mused, wondering.

Waylon made a face. "Of course, why wouldn't she be?"

"Well, you always hear about snooty butlers and that sort of stuff on TV," he admitted.

"Don't believe everything you see, Ryan."

The young lad gave a faint smirk. "Believe me, I don't."

Their meals arrived, two massive porter house steaks, each topped with mushrooms and grilled onions. Two sides included Brussel sprouts, and a baked potato. Ryan's chocolate milk arrived with them, as did a refill of tonic water for Waylon.

"So," Ryan began as he ate, talking through a full mouth, "you're not like I expected either."

Waylon chewed thoughtfully then swallowed. He took a sip of his drink. "Oh," he asked curious. "How so?"

"Well," Ryan replied, "Burns is a complete dick, and so far you're not. But I expected you would be." Ryan looked up, expression calculating.

It was a provocation if ever Waylon Smithers had seen one. The youth was testing him. Years of living with Montgomery Burns had taught Waylon the fine art of ignoring such a challenge. Best to let it go. He cut a piece of meat and added a mushroom to it. "Language," he chided.

Ryan smirked. "Sorry."

Waylon shook his head. "No you're not." He popped the delicious piece of tender meat in his mouth and chewed slowly.

Ryan looked oddly abashed. "Okay, I wasn't sorry," he admitted.

Waylon tilted his head.

"But seriously," Ryan continued. "I mean, the way that Burns treated Larry? I mean, that's out-and-out abuse right there. Not just verbal, but physical too! He grabbed Larry, Vulcan death grip style, right at his neck." Ryan pantomimed reaching out and shaking someone. "It hurt him! And Burns didn't even care. He did it that way on purpose!"

Ryan threw up his arms. "And Larry's telling me Burns treats him better than he treats you. So explain that to me. If he treats you like dogsh-… I mean dog poop, how'd you wind up leaving mom for _that?_ " Ryan muttered something else under his breath.

Waylon didn't catch it. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Another remark to ignore. Waylon decided to try changing topics slightly.

"How'd you even meet Larry anyhow?" Waylon probed. "Chicago's a huge city. The odds are, well, they're none too high. There's a story here, isn't there, Ryan?"

Ryan speared a Brussel sprout, examined it cautiously, then stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed a few times, and washed it down with a sip of chocolate milk. "No sense in staying in Philly after mom died. And I didn't have anywhere to go. So I decided I'd travel along Route 66 till I hit Santa Monica. Then, I dunno, swim across the Pacific or just jump in holding something heavy and sink..."

Ryan gave a humorless laugh. "I hadn't planned it beyond that. But anyhow, Chicago. I'm in this garden, ironically the cancer survivor garden, and these two guys cut through talking about stuff. One of them, Larry, he's falling behind. His dad doesn't even look back, just leaves him behind. And while he's catching his breath he sees me. Then he tells me I look just like his dad. At first, I think he's an idiot because there's no way he could have a dad that's young. He shows me a picture, then explains it's not his dad, but his dad's _husband_ that I look like. By the time topics of names come up, he's firmly convinced it's a crazy coincidence… and I don't believe in coincidences. So, I had to find out if it was true. Now, here I am."

Ryan took a deep breath, and another sip of his chocolate milk.

"Did Larry tell you were I live?" Waylon asked cautiously.

"Larry talks a lot," replied Ryan. "He mentioned the city, state, and road in more or less that order. It was easy to find on my map. So, no, he didn't explicitly give your address, but he wasn't exactly secretive."

Waylon nodded. He wasn't sure if he'd have to attempt to force the idea of discretion into Larry's thick skull, or if he should call the man and thank him for uniting him with his son. Maybe both, Waylon decided, and probably in that order.

"I liked Larry," Ryan remarked out of the blue, catching his father off guard.

"Really?" Waylon asked, surprised.

Ryan nodded. "Sure. I mean, his jokes are killer, and not in a good way, but he's genuine and he sees the good in people. At least he seems that way."

Waylon glanced up at the lengthening shadows. The late afternoon had taken on a lovely golden cast. "No, that about sums him up," Waylon admitted. "He can be a bit of an oaf sometimes, but he's got a good heart."

"So how'd a man like Burns wind up raising an easy going guy like Larry?"

Waylon shifted anxiously in his seat and pushed his plate away. He'd suddenly lost his appetite. "Monty didn't realize he had a son until recently."

Ryan's eyes narrowed to slits. "That explains a lot. You two _are_ quite the pair, aren't you."

Waylon pointed his fork warningly at Ryan. "Be nice…" he admonished.

"Or what? You'll tell me to get packing?"

Smithers laid the fork down. "No. I'm not going to do that. This place was built to house a large family. You're family, so you've got as much right to be here as anyone else."

"Yeah, family…" Ryan grumbled. "At least until your hubby gets back."

Waylon bit his tongue and swallowed the scathing reply that played at his lips. It would do no good, he knew, to get in a battle of sarcasm with a teenager. If Ryan was anything like his mother, he would be a master at verbal wit. Combine that with Waylon's own stubbornness, and it would be a battle no one would win. _There'd only be survivors_ , Waylon thought, remembering the increasingly frequent fights he and Lydia had shortly before everything fell apart. He resisted his urge to defend Burns on instinct, and tried as best he could to see things from Ryan's perspective.

"Why would you say that?" Waylon asked.

Ryan finished his chocolate milk. "Because as soon as he looked at my face he basically flipped sh-… he freaked out. He said I was nothing to him, not even a ghost. Then he dragged Larry out of there by the neck. I mean, if Larry considers that good treatment, and says he gets handled more kindly than you, what the hell constitutes abuse around this place? Hah, as soon as 'hubby' gets back, you're going to catch it good… _dad_." Ryan added the last word soaked in derision. Dad. He hadn't meant it as a kindness. Ryan's lip curled in a sneer.

Waylon tried to catch Ryan's mood. It was like trying to capture smoke in a jar. One moment the youth was almost civil, the next he was spitting venom without remorse. Waylon supposed he could understand it, but he heartily disagreed that he deserved it. It wasn't his fault Lydia had hid her pregnancy, not his fault she never contacted him after Ryan had been born. Why was he, Waylon Smithers, sitting here taking the brunt of the teenager's anger? He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head.

 _Try and see if from Ryan's perspective_ , Waylon coaxed himself. _Don't take it out on the boy_.

"Well, Ryan, be that as it may. I wasn't there, and I don't know what happened. Monty, _Mister Burns_ to you, is out of town at the moment, so you won't have to worry about him for several days at least." Waylon took a deep breath. "Let's try and relax, get to know each other without fighting, okay?"

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah? Where's he go?"

Waylon looked away. "I don't… know."

Ryan gave him a self-satisfied look. "How's that feel for you, huh?"

Waylon stood up, gathering his plate, not waiting for Elise. "It doesn't bother me, Ryan. Mister Burns is a busy man, he's got important matters to attend to, and if he feels the need to travel it's his right to do just that." Waylon grabbed Ryan's empty plate and stacked it atop his.

He started in towards the house, when Ryan's voice came across the patio. "So he leaves you, and you just have to be okay with it? Sounds pretty one-sided to me. I doubt he'd be so calm if _you_ weren't here when he got back."

 _Damn it all_ , Waylon thought, enraged. He stormed back over to Ryan and practically threw the plates down on the table.

The youth's smug expression rapidly faded, replaced by fear. Ryan shrank back, drawing an arm up protectively.

"Now look here, Ryan. You have no right to start flinging accusations around like that. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, I really am. But I'm also sorry Lydia never told me about you! That's not my fault. And it's not yours. That's hers, but there's nothing _either_ of us can do about it now." Waylon could feel his face reddening. He ran his hands through his short hair and tried to compose himself. "You want me to say it? Fine! I'll say it: I made a mistake. _I fucked up!_ I shouldn't have left the way I did. There, are you happy?"

Waylon sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. "I never met for any of this to happen. And if I'd known about you, I could've been helped somehow. Visited you. Paid some bills, or at the very least sent you a Christmas card."

He slid his glasses off, and raised his head. Ryan's face was blurry, his dark hair reminding Waylon even more of Lydia than ever.

"How do you think I feel about this? Do you think this is easy for me to learn about? Do you honestly think I wouldn't have helped if I knew? Of course I would've! It's called responsibility. Simple as that. I can't change the past, or anything your mother did, but that doesn't mean I would've have been involved had I known."

Ryan bit his lower lip, but Smithers could still see the trembling in the boy's face. Ryan looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally, quietly, he spoke. "But mom loved you," he began plaintively. "Why would you leave her for someone who treats you like shit?"

Waylon Smithers realized he had no idea how to answer that.


	4. Chapter 4

Ryan curled up under the blankets of the massive bed in his room, watching the stars out the window. He couldn't sleep. It felt so strange to be here. His conversation with his father had answered some questions, and raised others.

After almost an hour of fitful thrashing, Ryan gave up on the idea of sleep for the time being. His body was exhausted, but his mind simply would not stop replaying the day's events over and over. Ryan glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was only nine at night, it felt so much later.

Frustrated, he slipped on his tee-shirt and jeans. _Might as well go exploring_ , he reasoned.

He glanced up and down the empty hall, then headed down towards the staircase. He wasn't sure where his father had gotten off to, and didn't really care at the moment. Ryan figured he'd poke about the mansion, and hopefully not get too lost in the process.

Ryan trailed his fingertips along the well-oiled wood paneling in the main hall, some dark and elaborately carved wood that had been polished to a mirror-like sheen over the decades. The manor was laid out in three main portions. There was the central hall, marked by the entry way and massive dome. To the east and west were two wings. The east wing, on the second level, was what Ryan assumed was the residential wing. His room was at the furthest southeast corner of the manor.

Nearly all the halls were decorated with amazing works of art: sculptures, paintings, even antique weaponry hung proudly on display. Ryan reached his finger up, touching the leading edge of a curved sabre, and promptly jerked his hand away. Still sharp. He watched a tiny drop of red form along the cut in his fingertip. He put his finger in his mouth, and decided not to touch anything else.

Portraits of Burns' ancestors filled the spaces, as well as the occasional coat of arms or family crest.

The manor almost felt like a museum. The upper levels seemed to be nothing but displays, and endless rooms. There was a music room, multiple studies here and there. A main library, sitting rooms… rooms he wasn't even sure what they were supposed to be for. Ryan tried to keep count. After fifty, he forgot his place, and gave up the task.

One level, almost directly above the residential wing, featured artwork of men who must've been Burns' ancestors. Various scenes of men somewhat resembling Montgomery Burns displayed them in the middle of various patriotic or heroic acts. He passed a set of dark green curtains that hung between two sculptures and paused.

A chill ran down his spine.

He felt as if he were not alone.

Ryan whirled suddenly, looking behind him. For a second, he could've sworn he felt someone watching him. The hallway was empty, save for the artwork and green curtains beside him.

There was something unsettling about that gallery. Something Ryan couldn't quite put his finger on, but it made the hair rise on the back of his neck nonetheless. With an involuntary shudder, Ryan quickly turned and made his way back from where he'd come.

A flight of stairs led down to the lower floors. Ryan quickly trotted down, then halted so abruptly he almost fell.

His father's voice echoed up from the landing below.

Ryan craned his body over the banister and peered down.

On the next floor down, his father paced back and forth, a cell phone held in front of him. "You found it where?" Waylon asked, voice pitched with worry.

A tinny voice replied through the phone's speaker. Ryan couldn't make out the words.

Waylon set the phone on the banister next to him and put his hands on the railing. "Are you sure?"

The voice made some unintelligible reply. Waylon nodded to himself. "Okay, good; fine. I'll be down there as soon as I can. No one so much as removes the chocks from the wheels. No flight plans, no nothing." He listened to a protest over the speaker. "I don't care what he says. He's not taking the jet anywhere until I can get down there and personally sort this out."

Another pause, more protests.

"I don't care what you think he might do to you if you refuse. Worry about what I _will_ do if I come down there and I find he's already flown off again!"

The person at the other end of the line was shouting now. Ryan could hear him almost clearly. His father cut the man off. "You forget who I am. Waylon Joseph Smithers… and a Burns. I do have authority. Don't question it. Ground the jet, and if he has any problems with that, you can send him to deal with me personally. Understood?"

The voice replied it was understood.

"Good," Waylon replied.

He hung up and shoved the phone in his pocket.

Ryan watched silently as his father folded his arms over the banister and looked down to the tiled floor below. "Why, Monty?" Waylon asked softly. "Mortrouge, of all places." Waylon lapsed into silence.

Ryan turned stealthily to leave, but his father's voice stopped him. "I know you're up there, Ryan."

Sighing and dropping his shoulders theatrically, not that Waylon could probably see, Ryan made his way back to the railing. "I wasn't spying. How did you know I was up here?"

Waylon gestured to his phone. "I saw your reflection in the screen."

"Oh." Ryan draped himself over the banister and let his arms dangle. "Well then…"

"We're leaving on a road trip tomorrow," Waylon explained, looking up.

Ryan swung his arms. "Awww, what? I just got done with a road trip. I don't want to go anywhere."

Waylon leaned his back against the railing behind him and folded his arms, looking up at Ryan. "So, do you want to stay here at the manor? Or are you going to continue with your trip to Santa Monica?"

Ryan shifted his weight. Honestly, neither sounded appealing. The idea of being in this big, empty house alone? No thank you. Likewise, the idea of setting out on his trip didn't hold much appeal at the moment either. He didn't feel like being alone again just yet. He'd been alone too much lately. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone, especially not this guy he'd just met. Ryan draped his body over the railing. "I guess I'll go," he said, hoping he'd masked the clinginess in his voice. "Where are we going, anyhow?"

"Mortrouge," replied Waylon. "That's in Louisiana, outside of New Orleans," he added, catching Ryan's perplexed look.

"We're flying?" Ryan asked.

Waylon shook his head. "Driving." Waylon pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Ryan thought he gesture looked terribly similar to his own motions. He ran a hand through his black hair. He did not want to have anything in common with his father. "Driving? To Louisiana? That's like two thousand miles almost! It'll take us four days just to drive there."

Waylon's face was unreadable. "I intend to make it in three."

Ryan snorted. "That's not possible."

He watched his father shrug. "It's doable. I've done long drives before."

Ryan sat down on the carpeted floor and stuck his legs between the gaps of the railing, kicking the air. "But why the big rush?"

Waylon shook his head. "Montrouge… it's a long story. Monty remarked the other day that time's the ultimate monster. He commented that one can never go back to a time, only a place. I was going to ask him for a clarification, but he threw his book on the floor and told me he needed to get away to a place before any of this happened." Waylon held up his hands. "I didn't know what he was referring to. But now I do."

Ryan kicked the air aimlessly. "What do you mean?"

Waylon reached up, gently grabbing Ryan's swinging ankle, stopping the restless motion of his legs. The gesture was soft, kindly; and Ryan found it oddly reassuring.

"That's a long story," Waylon replied. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss it on the road." He passed under Ryan's legs. "Try to get some sleep, Ryan," he called up as he disappeared down the hall. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

 _Yeah, sleep. Like that'll happen_ , Ryan thought sullenly. He stood up, and realized he missed his father's hand on his ankle. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him in a familial way. Not since his mom got sick. When she'd been well, Ryan would often swallow his pride and curl up on the couch next to his mother. She'd stroke his black hair, so much like hers, and remark that no matter how old he got, he'd always be her son… and she'd always love him.

Ryan hadn't realized how much he missed her touch until Waylon's hand let go.

 _I'm not going to ask him for a hug_ , Ryan thought stiffly. _I'm a grown man, I'm too old for that_. Attempting mightily to convince himself of this fact, despite the feelings in his heart, Ryan made his way back to his chamber. He changed into his sleepwear, and slid between the soft sheets.

Somehow, though he would've never expected it, sleep found him. Silently he fell into the dreamless rest of the exhausted.


	5. Chapter 5

**November 30th, 1886**

 _The boy does nothing but cry; it wears on my nerves, makes the very marrow of my bones ache with his plaintive whimpering. Hardly a happy thanksgiving to me, I fear. I'm beginning to wonder if I haven't made a mistake in selecting this one._

 _I always told Clifford I'd take my pound of flesh for his disobedience. I suppose he never believed I would be wont to make it so. Ah, but it was a long ride back with this boy, first by sleigh, then train, and finally carriage to Belledouleur. I'd expected him to be impressed, the warm weather, the grandeur of my estate, the hard-working thralls in the fields._

 _No. I am subject to this pitiful constant mewling from the boy. Some mutterings about some 'Bobo,' a name he's bestowed upon his lovely, a felt bear of no great significance. The boy still cries for his bear. Ah, how am I to stand it?_

 _I keep reminding myself that this is perhaps the best Clifford and his cursed loins could produce for me. Ah, but within any breeding there are always the weak specimens; the imperfect limbs on the family tree that must be pruned without remorse. Alas that Evelyn died in childbirth, and he survived. He, and an older sister Doreena. It hardly leaves me much of a litter to choose from._

 _Ah, fair Doreena, married off and doing well in her own right. She does me proud, the model daughter, wife and mother her station requires._

 _But Clifford, I'll never understand what possessed the man. He, as my sole heir, stood to inherit everything. And yet, he forsook it all and moved that forlorn strip of territory, Nebraska. I remember his last night at the house as if it were yesterday: how he threatened to leave and never look back; and I offered to set the hounds on him and have him torn apart for his ingratitude._

 _If he were a better man, I would've given him credit though: he never flinched. I suppose it's my own generosity or weakness that stayed my hand. I made him a bargain: that I would give him funds equal in the amount of Doreena's dowry, and let him go. In exchange, however, in as many years' time as I decided, I would make a visit to his holdings and select from his get an heir suitable to replace him. Then, I would be done with him, and not trouble him again._

 _Fate was not kind to Clifford, I fear. Though he proved fertile, he hardly produced quality. This runt was the pick of the litter, but I'm not sure that's saying much._

 _On Thanksgiving Day I paid a visit to Clifford and his Daphne. After all, how could the man turn away his own father on such a holiday? He, of course knew the reason I'd come. Apparently, he hadn't thought it necessary to discuss our deal with his wife. When she realized that I'd come for more than turkey and stuffing, she became distraught._

 _That trickled down to the children gathered around us. I watched the twins - what were their names, Cornelia and Cornelius - fall to simpering. The baby, George, he was too young to even assess, but there is a blank look in his eye that turned me off immediately. Of the rest of the lot, the only one that so much as captured my attention was young Charles._

 _There is a keenness in his eyes, a sort of cleverness. He turned his gaze from his mother's lamentations to me, then back again, all the while saying nothing. He did not, however, fall to tears. I think that was why I selected him. The boy has the potential for rationale that his siblings, emotional little primitives, clearly lack._

 _Oh, did I take a moment to describe this place that they all live? The provincial hovel these people call home?_

 _No?_

 _Please permit me a moment to do so now._

 _It was a farmstead of several dozen acres, all tilled land buried beneath snow and ice. The granary stored the work of their labor. Several barns were nearby, containing various manners of beasts: chickens, swine, sheep, a cow or two, and their cumbersome draft horses. A few fruit trees dotted the landscape, what my poor son refers to as an orchard, though it hardly compares to my own. The beasts served to provide milk, eggs, meat and hide._

 _Clifford and his wife take to making most of their own goods. That which they don't produce they trade, not sell!, with their neighbors in town._

 _Clifford has no hands, no labor. The children work like slaves to sow, tend, then harvest the crops. Even young Charles soils his hands milking the cows, gathering eggs. His sisters sheer the sheep, even spin and dye the wool._

 _Most shockingly of all, Clifford seems proud of this fact! He boasts that this lifestyle puts his closer to God; and that his so-called "Lord" will provide. If such were the case, why has his Lord already claimed his first and second born? When I asked, he replied "God works in mysterious ways" and didn't bother to explain further._

 _The man is delusional. Any one of these children would be lucky to be chosen by me._

 _It's an honor only young Charles will receive._

 _After dinner, I stayed the night in their small hovel, a cabin by my standards. There is a common area, a kitchen and dining area; and three bed rooms: one for the parents, one for the boys, and the last fir the girls. Not even any indoor plumbing. Clifford tried to convince me that they're building an addition next spring, but I simply do not care. I'll never be returning here. His plans are irrelevant to me._

 _The next morning, I took Charles._

 _The boy alternated between protests and silent sorrow for the entire ride to the train station. Occasionally he asked if we could go back for Bobo. I informed him we had a timetable that must be kept. I could not bear to stay in this wintery hell a moment more than necessary. It may be all well and good for animals, or savages, but I craved the warm comforts of Belledouleur once again._

 _Perhaps I should give him a bit more time. But if he doesn't come around, I'll be forced to dispose of him. I haven't decided quite how I would even go about that. I can't send him back to his father, naturally. That would be akin to admitting I was wrong, and it would be a greater kindness than Clifford deserves._

 _How would I get rid of this child anyhow? Release him in the swamps, sell him into labor, or perhaps merely feed him to Wildfell?_

 _Ah, I should put such thoughts out of my head. Humorous though they may be, it will serve me no good to cloud my judgement with undo resentment._

 _No. It's only been six days. I remind myself: patience! I shall give it a fortnight, perhaps even a moon, and make my decision then. He may yet surprise me. Perhaps even challenge me! If I can train a dog, then perhaps I can too shape this young creature into a likeness befitting his blood and name!_

\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. November 30th. 1886


	6. Chapter 6

**December 5th, 1886**

 _Finally the boy seems to have worn himself out, and given up his sobbing. Now at least I have time to think in peace. He's eating, which is good, and it becomes apparent he will not die of a broken heart like I worried he might, having been raised so delicately under my soft-headed fool of a son._

 _And yet he disregards my summons?_

 _In agitation I assaulted his chamber and demanded to know, in no short terms, why he felt it fitting to ignore me._

 _The boy looked up, eyes wide as a newborn rabbit's. I realized then how pale he'd grown since arriving. Eating, but not eating well, I fear. I'll have to have Crowe bolster his diet with more red meats. There is an unspoken craving for iron in the sallow tone of his complexion._

 _In our following conversation, the boy revealed two things to me. Information that I pocketed, and intend to make use of before long. He explained to me he felt a deep and heartsick melancholy for his parents' homestead, that even amidst the luxurious trappings of Belledouleur he felt he would never be happy again._

 _I demanded to know if that was the reason he felt it right to be so insolent and ignore my order to attend my company: it appears this lad is like a neglected dog that doesn't even recognize its own name! Why he doesn't respond to "Charles," "Chaz," or even the loathsomely informal "Huck" that some of that regal name chose to go by._

 _Head hanging, the boy explained that his parents never called him such; not even "Montgomery."_

 _"My name is Happy," he explained sadly._

 _Once again my gorge rose at the utter sacchariferous habits of my errant son. "Happy." That is not a name for a man, or even a good horse. Some broken down nag, perhaps, or a mongrel cur kept only for entertainment? Then I could see using that name. But for a grandson of mine, a Burns no less? No. That would never do._

 _I folded my hands over my cane and glared down at him._

 _"From henceforth, you will never be 'Happy,' again," I intoned._

 _I could've sworn a tear started to leak from beneath his closed lids. "I feel like I'll never be happy again," he confessed. Perhaps he misjudged my words, but I ignored that._

 _This encounter was proving the most perfect alignment of events._

 _I rapped the foot of my cane on the floor to get his attention. "Exactly!" I exclaimed. "And that is something to celebrate! You'll be better than 'Happy' my boy. You will be rich, powerful… and feared! Believe me when I say, fear is like respect, but far better: for respect can be lost, but fear can always be maintained. In it, the power lies!"_

 _I stood to my full height, and beckoned him rise from the bed where he sat like a broken toy._

 _"You are Charles Montgomery Burns, heir to greatness! You will never have to settle for being 'Happy' again. Say it with me: 'I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be 'Happy' again.'"_

 _The boy parroted my words, but his voice was weak, lacked conviction. I clasped both hands over the head of my cane._

 _"Aye, words, lad. But again, this time force!"_

 _I repeated the phrase, tapping my cane in cadence to each word. They came so naturally to a steady beat. Metering rhythm, I gestured to the boy: "Speak!"_

 _The heady beat was hypnotic. I could see it working against his resolve. "I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again."_

 _"Louder!" I all but screamed, engloried in the boy's repetition. I threw back my head and repeated the words with him. His voice rose in strength and volume, and I matched pitch, our words perfectly in time to the tempo I'd so carefully set. I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again! I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again!_

 _I swear the very timbers of the roof trembled as if in fear of the potency behind our chant. He was yelling alone now, with a fervent zeal bordering on religious enthusiasm, the chant rolling naturally from his mouth. I would not doubt the sharecroppers in my fields could hear the passion of his words._

 _"Aye, that's the spirit, my boy!" I encouraged, raising a fist to the air. "Let it be known who you truly are!"_

 _His voice was strained at ragged from exertion. Lest I overwork him, I waved my hand, cutting him off mid-cry. "Ah then, there's enough young fellow," I said gently. I reached into my pocket and withdrew a single coin, a silver one-dollar Morgan. I twirled it across my fingers, delighting in the way the boy's eyes latched on to it with the intent of a hunting raptor._

 _It stands to reason this is a larger amount of money than the lad has ever seen at one time. I flipped it in the air, and with skill at prestidigitation, made it appear to vanish, only to open my fist before his face, and present it. "Minted in our very own New Orleans, young Charles," I told him as I moved it slowly to- and fro-._

 _"I daresay it belongs in your hands now, not mine."_

 _I took his right wrist, flipping his hand palm up, and deposited the Morgan into his outstretched digits. I curled his fingers around coin, still warm from its place at my hip pocket._

 _"For me, grandfather?" he asked, eyes blue pools of amazement._

 _It was all I could do not to pat myself on the back. "Yes, my boy, for you. The fervor and vigor you displayed ere moments ago pleases me. I think this is ample way to express my gratitude to you then. Keep it." I made to depart before he could even speak. I had no intentions of belaboring a conversation. "Remember that there are far more where that came from, but don't let me catch you reaching your hand out. Begging is something I don't even tolerate from the dogs. I shall guide and teach you, young Charles, governing your education as I see fit. Do well, and you shall be rewarded. Displease me, and I shall see you don't repeat the mistake. Do we have an understanding, my boy?"_

 _He nodded, holding the coin aloft reverently._

 _"Good," I said, nodding magnanimously. "You are a Burns, Charles. Whatever backwater life your father subjected you to, it's done and gone. Welcome, my dear Charles, to the first day of your real life."_

 _With that, I stepped out, shutting his door behind me. Let that seed grow. Let him hold that coin and get a taste of it. I know in short order he'll crave more. Happy indeed. I'll be sure to extinguish such foolery of his underprivileged past; of this I have no doubt._

\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. December 5th. 1886


	7. Chapter 7

Ryan woke up to the sound of knocking on his door. He groaned at stretched, then pulled the pillow over his head. "No!," he protested.

"Yes," came his father's voice at the door.

Ryan rolled over and threw a tee shirt on. "What?" he asked, opening the door and looking at Waylon.

Waylon stood there, a vest over his button-up shirt, and wearing tan khakis. "It's time to go. Are you packed?"

"It's still dark out," groaned Ryan, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "And I never unpacked in the first place." He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder. "I want to get some stuff out of my trailer."

Waylon nodded. "That's fine, we're going that way anyhow."

The two men descended the flying staircase. Ryan instinctively started towards the front door, but Waylon gently took his arm. "Downstairs," he explained, gesturing toward a back hallway.

"But my bike-"

"-Is in the garage," Waylon finished. He lead Ryan down a second flight of stairs, the rich wood paneling giving way to wainscoting and white plaster.

The 'garage' as Waylon called it was located in a converted section of the manor basement. While the original ceiling-work remained, vaulted red brick with cathedral-arching, the area had been entirely redone. Between the supports for the ceiling, track lighting illuminated each bay. The floor was black and white checkered tile. Ryan paused at the foot of the stairs and looked down the row of various automobiles, nearly each one a collector's piece. Some he recognized, others he had no idea on.

A peg-board by the wall held more keys than he cared to count; each set labeled for its respective car. "An Aston Martin?" Ryan asked, eyes wide.

Waylon nodded, face pinching slightly. "The new one, yes."

"What happened to the old one?"

"It got totaled," Waylon replied curtly.

Ryan figured it was best to drop the matter. He watched his father select a set of keys for a Dodge Durango.

The Durango was located at the far end of the garage, closest to the doors, in a bay across from a blue Porsche. Ryan immediately recognized his motorcycle in the bay beyond the Durango. The trailer had been disconnected, and parked beside the bike.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. He was on the verge of protest for anyone touching his belongings, but then he paused. The bike shone like a floor model display, waxed and polished. Not a hint of road-grime to be seen.

Waylon folded the rear seats down, and tossed his bag into the cargo hold of the Durango.

"Your bike's been serviced, detailed, and refueled. Hopefully you don't mind."

Ryan pulled a few more sets of clothes, and the packs of Oreos out. "Mind? No! I mean, she looks great," he said, running a hand lovingly over the handlebars. "I mean, I should tell you no one touches my bike, but you didn't know, I guess I can let it go for now," he added, trying to play cool. He tossed his stuff in next to his father's bags.

Waylon hid a smile as he climbed in to the driver's seat

Ryan slid in beside him. He glanced around the interior of the Durango, and tried not to look impressed. Clearly, this was the fully-loaded edition. Ryan adjusted the seat, kicked off his shoes, and drew his feet up. He curled in the seat and leaned against the window. His father did a few last minute adjustments to the GPS, and they were off. The garage door opened automatically. So too did the gates at the end of the drive.

* * *

For several hours, they road silently. Waylon periodically glanced over at his son, but resolved not to be the first to speak. Ryan seemed content to be silent. Finally, after the second stop for bathroom breaks and fuel, about four hours into the drive, Waylon couldn't stand the silence.

For the past two hundred miles, he'd been listening to the thoughts in his own head. Enough was enough.

"Ryan," he began softly.

"Hmm?" the young man muttered sleepily, raising his head.

"I really am sorry, about all of this. But I'm glad you're here."

Ryan made a face and stretched his legs out. "Yeah? How so?"

Waylon shrugged. "I'm glad I'm getting the chance to get to know you. Family hasn't been something I've been blessed with, unfortunately."

"Right?" Ryan asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Waylon ground his teeth and slid his hands on the wheel, feeling the texture of the leather beneath his fingers. Visions of various father-son movies flashed through his head. This wasn't a movie, this was real. There was no script, and no promise of a happy ending.

He sighed heavily, and watched the clouds darkening on the horizon. "Right," he said finally. "I, eh, I don't have the best relationship with my mother."

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Why? Does she resent you for being a shitty husband to your wife?"

" _Language!_ "

"Sorry."

Waylon focused on the road for several minutes before speaking again. "No, it's not that. She lives at the New Bedlam Home for the Emotionally Interesting. A mental institution." Waylon thought about his next words carefully. He glanced at Ryan, who waited silently, face neutral. "I visit her," Waylon began, "but it's hard. She doesn't often recognize me anymore."

Ryan tilted his head. "Wait, your mother doesn't know who you are?"

"It's complicated. She's confused most of the time now. She thinks I'm my father."

The clouds were growing thicker. Waylon could see the grey curtains of rain sweeping across the fields ahead. The wind was blowing the storm east, but not as fast as they were driving. It wouldn't be long before they caught up to it.

"So what happened to your father?" Ryan asked.

"I grew up without him," Waylon replied. "He… he wound up sacrificing himself to save Springfield from a nuclear meltdown, but no one ever knew about it. I didn't find out until a few years ago. I grew up thinking my father had run off and abandoned his family."

Ryan's eyes had a distant, faraway look to them. He mumbled something under his breath. Waylon didn't hear it.

"What's that Ryan?"

"Reactor Two: a hungry beast," Ryan muttered. "'At the word, the saw, as if to prove saws knew what supper meant, leaped out that the boy's hand.'" Ryan's eyes followed a bolt of lightning to the ground.

Waylon felt a chill run down his spine. Something in Ryan's tone was deeply unsettling. He shivered despite the warm weather. "Why would you say that?" _Reactor Two? Was that where his father had died?_ It never occurred to Waylon to ask when Burns admitted the story of Waylon Sr.'s death. Something in Ryan's demeanor made Waylon believe it must be so.

Even through the sound-dampened interior of the Durango, Waylon felt, as much as heard the thunderclap shake the car.

Ryan raised his hazel eyes to Waylon, and muttered softly: "No one believed; they listened at his heart.' Your father… they thought he left."

Waylon nodded. "My mother… she blamed Mister Burns. She didn't know the truth. She thought my father had ran away, or been run out. She never knew he died a hero. I told her once, but I'm not sure she believed it. And she forgot soon after. I never told her again."

"Maybe you should," Ryan suggested. "Even if she forgets it, it probably does her good."

Waylon didn't know what to say to that. He watched the storm come over them. The first few fat droplets of rain collided against the windshield with a wet splat. _Like hitting a junebug_ , Waylon thought morosely.

Several loud drops later, and the sky tore open. It was too loud to talk further.

Waylon squinted against the driving rain, it was almost impossible to see against the downpour. And hail. A few small BB-sized pellets at first, then the resounding crack as the size increased drastically to that of marbles. He merged to the right, slowing down just as a semi-trailer roared past on his left in a spray of water and mist.

Ryan cursed, echoing Waylon's sentiments. "What's his hurry anyway?"

Through the dim shadows of rain, Waylon saw an overpass ahead. He veered towards the shoulder, putting on his emergency flashers, and pulled over under the sheltering road above. Out of the hail and rain, it was mercifully quiet once again. Waylon watched the white hailstones bounce on the exposed highway ahead.

"Nature's ball-bearings," Ryan observed. "Or golf balls." He wiped the fog off his window with a sleeved arm. "So, Waylon, I believe you were telling me about your father?"

Waylon regarded his son thoughtfully. "You're not giving up, are you." It wasn't a question.

Ryan shook his head, black hair swinging. "Nope."

Waylon folded his arms over the steering wheel and looked out at the storm beyond the safety of their overpass. "Well," he began, "it's a long story."

* * *

Waylon Smithers _Junior_ explained to his son Ryan about his childhood. He'd never known his father. His mother had been institutionalized for a time when he was very young, and for a few years he lived with his aunt and uncle, raised beside his cousins Robert ("Robbie") and Caroline. Robbie was older, Caroline younger.

When he'd first moved back in with his mother, he resented his aunt and uncle, unable to understand why they hadn't kept him. As he grew older, it made more sense to be raised by his mother. As for his mother, Roberta, she was both loving and detached in one.

Roberta remarried when Waylon was about six years old. His stepfather came in, intent on reshaping Waylon into what he thought a man should be. Waylon didn't bother to tell Ryan about the incident with the Malibu Stacey dolls, or the times his step-father had been less than gentle with him. It would hardly do to make this a pity story, and, in Waylon's mind, the less he recalled about his step-father's rough and hurtful ways, the better.

Waylon did admit though, that after several years, Mister Burns became his god-father. Or, technically, it had been in his father's will to grant Montgomery Burns that honor.

"We didn't know if my father was dead or alive," Waylon admitted to Ryan, "but after seven years without contact, he was presumed legally dead. We even had a memorial service. for him."

Waylon's story continued. In the following years, young Waylon found escape from his stepfather's harsh attitudes on the grounds of Burns Manor. Under Burns' encouraging hand, Waylon was allowed to indulge his passion in music and art; all things 'unmanly' that his step-father described. In his teens, he'd learned to dance, Burns' showing young Waylon various steps from swing-dancing to waltzes. Waylon closed his eyes, recalling with fondness the graceful movements in the ball room, covering the marble floor as if he were floating.

 _"_ That all sounds rather pedophilic," Ryan announced, expression skeptical.

Waylon shook his head. "No, not at all. There was nothing of that nature to it."

"Are you sure? You're married to him now. Sounds like 'grooming' to me."

Waylon squeezed his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "No. It was nothing of the kind. It was innocent. I needed someone who paid attention to me. Looking back, I think he enjoyed the company as well. It was good for both of us. I didn't even think about him in _that way_ till years later… and he had no idea how I felt till years beyond that. You can't blame Mister Burns for our relationship. Sometimes things just happen, and there is no clear 'why.'"

Ryan made a noncommittal noise, but seemed satisfied. "So then what?"

Waylon watched the storm, which showed no signs of letting up, and continued his story.

He told Ryan how he'd kept hoping his father would show up, even after the 'memorial' service. He imagined his father would swoop in, banish his stepfather, and make life normal for him and his mother. It was a dream he held on to long after there was a reason to. Waylon admitted when he graduated highschool, he couldn't help but scan the crowd for his father's face.

Highschool itself had been uneventful for Waylon. Surprisingly so. He graduated near the top of his class, and started working at the nuclear power plant. The fall after highschool, he started working towards his degree at the Springfield Community College. It was during his freshman year in college, he met Lydia, and they became closest of friends. Unsure what the next step was in his life, and reluctant to take any other course, Waylon proposed to her. They were married two years later.

All the while, Waylon continued his job at the nuclear plant, moving his way up from a simple "go-fer" to a trusted member of Monty Burns' inner circle. On schedule, he graduated college with a four year degree. Already by that point, his marriage was already showing some stress cracks. At the time, Waylon attributed it to the stress of completing his Senior thesis, and managing a full-time job to support his young wife.

Unfortunately, things did not improve upon his graduation. He received a promotion at work, requiring him to spend most of his waking hours between the nuclear plant and Burns Manor. Tensions between him and Lydia hit a breaking point. One fateful night, a few weeks after he'd broken his ankle on the job and had one drink to many, he couldn't find a reason to stay in his marriage any longer.

That was a rough memory. I _t's that horrible Mister Burns isn't it,_ Lydia objected. Though true, the accusation had been the breaking point for Waylon. He left that night, and never returned to her.

"I just didn't know how to keep it together," Waylon confessed to Ryan. "And you're right, I didn't handle it the way I should've."

He listened to the thunder rumble outside the car.

* * *

Ryan sat with his back to his father. He drew a smiley face in the fog on his window, then wiped it away. "Is that all real?" Ryan asked, not looking at Waylon.

"Of course, why would I make that up?"

Ryan shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe you're trying to relate to me."

Waylon snorted, almost amused. "Ryan, I'm not trying to 'relate' to anyone."

His son turned around, and brushed a strand of black hair from his eyes. "So that really happened then. You didn't know your father, you had a stepfather who whaled on you. It's no wonder you had no idea what a healthy relationship looked like, eh?"

"I never said my stepfather beat me," Waylon responded defensively. "And I do know what a healthy relationship looks like. It just took me a while to figure it out."

Ryan smirked. "Healthy. Right. I'll believe that when I see it. As for the beating thing? You didn't have to say it. I read between the lines. And I bet your mom didn't exactly step in on your behalf."

Waylon held up his hands in surrender. So far, Ryan hadn't been wrong.

Ryan folded his arms, satisfied. "I thought so."

The storm was finally receding. Waylon started the Durango, and shifted into gear. He licked his lips, then swallowed. His throat felt dry. "It's not that my mother didn't love me," he protested. His voice trailed off, unsure how to finish his sentence.

Ryan waited patiently.

"I think I reminded her too much of my father, and looking back, the fact that I spent so much time at Burns Manor probably only widened the gulf. I didn't have a bad relationship with my mother, but we were never as close as we could've been, I suppose. It wasn't the worst childhood, but it wasn't easy."

"Didn't give you much in the way of a positive role-model for a happy marriage, eh?"

Waylon tried to laugh, though it came out sounding more like a cough. "Ah, I guess you could say that."

Ryan tucked his legs back into the seat.

"I guess that makes sense why you had so much trouble with my mom. It doesn't excuse anything, but I guess it explains it a little."

Waylon glanced at Ryan, and was surprised to see an almost sympathetic expression on his son's face. Not entirely understanding, but Ryan's eyes lacked the characteristic derision he'd come to expect from the boy's gaze. It wasn't a breakthrough, but it was a positive start.

* * *

Ryan didn't talk much, Waylon noted. Not unless he had something to say. For the most part, he rode silently, staring out the window at the clouds and periodic sunny breaks. From time to time they stopped, but Waylon drove like a man pursued. He wasn't sure what waited for him in Louisiana, at the ancient plantation of Belledouleur, but he was in a hurry to find out.

As the sun emerged from the clouds and dipped below the western horizon, Waylon finally summoned up the courage to ask a question that had been on his mind ever since Ryan arrived. Admittedly, it was a rather selfish question, but his mind would not let the matter drop.

"Did your mother… did she ever talk about me?" he asked softly.

Ryan raised his head, then shook it. "No, not really. Hardly at all. Unless I brought it up."

Waylon considered the implications of that fact. "I see. Was she happy?"

Ryan nodded. "Yep!"

All these questions, and Waylon felt he was just circling the drain. He might as well stop beating around the bush and ask it outright. "And was there ever someone else; after me?"

Ryan snorted. "What? You wanna know if Mom spent the rest of her life mourning over the one that got away? You know, you're not very subtle." Ryan's hazel eyes twinkled with a biting humor in the dim light. "No, Waylon. Mom didn't remarry, or have a 'special someone' as you'd say. But she was never unhappy either." His expression grew distant as Ryan remembered. "Mom used to say she'd tried marriage, and it wasn't for her. From then, she got a job as a school Library Education instructor at the elementary school, and I think that was her family. Mom, she had a way of always seeing the best in things. She was great at teaching, even as just being the Librarian after the main academic day. I mean, she loved working with the kids, and I got a chance to read a lot. It kept her busy though, between work and me."

Waylon afforded a glance in Ryan's direction. "She didn't really have time for someone else?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "She didn't need it. Mom was happy as, well, mom. And at the school, she was kind of like a mother to all us kids. She worked a lot, but she was always there to know just what to say… or the right book to point us to, when we felt out of sorts. As my mom said, she was never lonely because she had herself, her books, and me. 'It's impossible to be alone when you have yourself,' was one of her favorite quotes."

Ryan smiled. "She loved her job. In first grade, I came home one day and told her 'I hate poetry!' Mom asked why, and I told her it was because the rhymes were stupid. Fat cat sat on the mat… stuff like that. It didn't tell a story; it didn't make pictures in my head, and the rhymes were annoying." Ryan stared out the window into lengthening twilight.

"Mom brought me to the library the next morning. She took me to the section with poems and I was really telling her I hated all poetry and trying to leave. She pulled out a book, and read me this little piece. I can still remember it. It was by Carl Sandberg, titled 'Fog.'"

Ryan tilted his head back, and recited two short stanzas:

 _The fog comes_

 _on little cat feet_

 _It sits looking_

 _over harbor and city_

 _on silent haunches_

 _and then moves on._

"I liked it! Of course," Ryan continued, "I argued that wasn't a poem. I said it didn't rhyme, so it couldn't be a poem. So mom tells me, in Latin: Nullo metro compositum est." He grinned at the memory. "That means, 'it doesn't rhyme.' Mom didn't speak Latin, but she had this book called _Latin Phrases for Fun_ , and that was one of them."

When Ryan smiled, closing his eyes for a minute. "I can't remember the other phrases. But there were some good ones.

Waylon felt an odd glow in his chest. There was something that warmed his heart to see Ryan remember a fond time.

"Mom told me that poems use words like an artist uses paint: it's not about following a pattern, it's about creating an image, evoking a mood. Heck, even changing a person's mind. Of course I was, like, seven at the time so a lot of it went over my head. But the core of what she was trying to teach me stuck. Now, I actually like poems. Especially the ones that don't rhyme. But sometimes, rhymes are good. If they don't detract from the words themselves. There's a reason some poets chose it. The same thing with meter, or foot, or whatever. The poem beat. A certain rhythm can hook into one's mind; and sometimes, that's a really powerful effect."


	8. Chapter 8

**December 23rd, 1886**

 _The boy seems stunned that I would take such passion for celebrating Christmas. He could not fathom the preparations. What did he expect, that I would be such a churl that I would shun the notion of this yuletide fest? I explained, as I took him upon my knee, that such a holiday is tremendously important to me. I asked him what he knew of it._

 _The boy spewed out some rhetoric about Christ and God, and all the trivialities that I'm sure his father has wedged into his head. It was all rather hard to listen to. I know the stories of the Christ-God, I daresay to a greater degree than any boy. But I entertained his speech._

 _At long last, he was finished._

 _I clapped him warmly on the shoulder and drew a strand of his short brown hair about my finger. "Ah, that's well and good," I said, tugging the lock of hair fondly, giving him cause for protest. "But you do have overlooked an important aspect of the modern era. Christmas is a time to present, to display, to open our home up and present the grandeur to which we live for all to see and enjoy."_

 _At least, that is how I explained it to him._

 _For, you see, I do so love to host such elaborate affairs at Belledouleur. It was in such a tradition of my father's that I met my lost wife. She adored the gatherings, the glamour, the festivities. And I enjoyed being the one to deliver it. I plan to use this joyous occasion to further secure my hold on this youth. In my gentle interrogations, with him perched beside me or on my lap, I have learned that his father - why am I not surprised? - kept Christmas to the most barebones of the holiday; refusing even to offer presents for fear it might alter the Godly upbringing he sought so hard to impart._

 _Admittedly, I am not even sure why. I raised him in a life of luxury. He received all his hearts desires, if he pleased me, at this holiday. It confronts and blocks my understanding how he could deny himself now._

 _But here, my mind wanders to that bit of wormrot on the family tree. Let me not dwell on that further._

 _This boy, young Charles… I asked him "what does your heart desire?"_

 _Of course, he said to see his family. I laughed and reassured him that no, that was quite impossible. And anyhow, had not they given him up? Why would he care to worry his mind with thoughts of a family that was so free to give him away._

 _"No," I reassured him. "We can do better than some pointless phantom like 'family.' What do you want? Something to have and hold, possess tightly and call your very own?"_

 _He hesitated._

 _I laughed._

 _"Well then, young master Charles, you force my hand! I shall have to decide for myself what best fits my young heir's fancy. Not an easy task," I added, tapping him on the nose, "but one I shall undertake nonetheless."_

 _I stroked his hair thoughtfully._

 _"But boy," I added, "we must do something about your hair." He wears a peasant's coif. He looks like a pauper, or a shorn monk. He put his hands to his head in protest._

 _"My father-"_

 _"-Call him Clifford."_

 _"Clifford says simplicity is next to godliness."_

 _I rocked back, with mirth. "Ah, see? Brainwashed by the cult of some Christ-king! Suffer and it will be worth it in the end, eh? Well, perhaps there is no end, and we should make it well worth our time now, eh? After all, that is why I host such a beautiful gathering here: so that we might all share in the moment, even if just for the night. Tell me, my son, did Clifford's 'godly' actions always bring you joy? Were you allowed to pursue freedom and pleasure at your whim?"_

 _Of course, the boy shook his head; just as I knew he would._

 _Thus, I continued._

 _"Think back, and I'm sure you can remember an instant your 'father' used his so-called 'faith' to justify wounding you greatly?"_

 _I was, admittedly, taking a gamble. But if anyone knows my son's heart, it's me. Perhaps I fail to understand the reason for his actions, but I know how he behaves. He is austere, Spartan. Naturally, I assumed he would force such a lifestyle on his family._

 _Once again, I was not disappointed._

 _The boy told me of a time his father caught him reading these printed pages, "funny books" he called them, of drawn characters and their adventures. And Clifford, predictably, viewed such indulgences as "the devil's own press." He bought the very store that sold these funny books, and had it burned to the ground… all the while making Charles watch. The child grew lachrymose as he recounted the tale._

 _Perhaps I should write Clifford and thank him._

 _Unknowingly, he has made my task so much the lighter!_

 _I swept young Charles up in my arms, and stood, holding his slight frame to my breast._

 _"Dear boy," I purred against his cheek, "that's truly dreadful! I am so sorry. What sort of 'father' would so pursue such delight in snuffing a spot od joy from his very own son's life? Truly deplorable. And to think he attempted to justify his actions with some zealot-spurred so-called 'faith?'"_

 _Charles nestled his head under my chin and I endured the presence further._

 _"Faith, what a lie. At least in terms of some god. It makes people do horrible things, pits man against man, brother at the throat of brother. Others wage a war on the innocent, a war no one can win, and in the end leaves nothing but waste. Your father decides to spend your family's hard-earned money and send it up in smoke; breaking your delicate heart in the process? My boy, dear Charles, that is why such patronage to 'faith' is a demon you must vanquish if ever you plan to be successful. Do you understand?"_

 _I felt the boy's head nodding against my throat._

 _Having grown tired of his weight, I set his down and straightened my back._

 _"We'll do away with this atrocious haircut," I remarked with decision. "We'll let it grow strong and thick; an aristocratic mane befitting your noble stature! How does that sound then? A Christmas feast fit for a king on earth, finery to match, and I'm sure I'll be able to find something for you that will bring delight to your eyes." I gave him another tap on the nose to indicate affection._

 _He grinned, and giggled. It was good to see. He's eager, young. He takes my words to heart. I laid a hand on his head. "Charles, my boy, already you are more a son to me than ever your milksop 'father' was."_

 _And for that, I am deeply glad._

\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. December 23rd. 1886


	9. Chapter 9

Around nine that night, Waylon coasted the Durango into the parking lot of a chain hotel. Nearly ten hours of driving. He'd covered close to six hundred and fifty miles. By his math, his three day estimate was on target.

Waylon had never craved a drink, or a cigarette quite so badly as he did at that moment. He shouldered his compact day bag over his shoulder. Ryan following stiffly at his heel, he went inside and booked them a room for the night.

"I want my own room," Ryan started to protest, but Waylon shot him a look that made the boy think twice.

"If you're willing to pay for it, be my guest," Waylon replied curtly as he handed his credit card to the desk clerk.

Waylon took the card keys, and handed one over the Ryan.

The hotel was a standard, modern affair: three stories, a pool, tiny exercise room, and a restaurant with a bar in it. Waylon glanced at the hours. The kitchen was still serving food till ten, a pleasant surprise. "Do you want dinner?" he asked Ryan as they made their way to their room on the second floor.

Ryan shook his head. "I'm not hungry." It was true, they'd stopped not that long ago for fuel and fast-food at a service plaza not all that long ago. There was also something about driving that tended to kill Waylon's appetite.

The room was a simple but pleasant place, typical of any large chain hotel. There were two queen beds, a TV, a few informational packets. Ryan flounced over to one of the beds and threw himself down on it, reaching for an informational brochure on the night stand.

Waylon stepped into the washroom, and afforded himself a moment of privacy. He'd shared many a room before; and, on occasional, even a bed or two. Up till recently, his private life outside of work had not been exactly empty. However, he'd never shared a room with his son before. Feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious, he groaned. Perhaps he should've gotten them two rooms after all. Waylon turned the taps and splashed cold water on his face, washing away the sweat and long road hours. Over the hiss of the faucet, he heard Ryan turn on the TV. He straightened up, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

 _I'm coming_ , Monty, he thought, running his fingers over the wedding ring on his left hand. _Please, please don't do anything stupid…_

The idea crossed his mind to try calling, but from what he remembered of Mortrouge, the cell reception had been spotty at best. And Monty Burns, never the most technologically savvy, there was a better-than-average chance he'd left his cell phone back with the jet anyhow.

Waylon sighed, heart heavy; mind weighted down with fear.

When he'd set out this morning, the drive hardly seemed so bad. It felt as if he'd be in Mortrouge before he knew it. Now that he was actually on the road, Montrouge, and _Monty_ Burns might as well have been on the other side of the planet.

Waylon dried his face, and stepped into their shared room. "Ryan, do you mind if I go out for a walk to stretch my legs?"

Ryan shrugged. "You're a grown adult, _dad_ ," he remarked flippantly as he surfed through the channels.

For some reason, Ryan's words dug into Waylon far deeper than he wanted to admit. Little barbs, sinking into his heart. He wasn't even sure why. He gathered his wallet, and the silver tin he kept his cigarettes in, and grabbed his coat. Up in the mountains, the air had a remarkably biting chill. Waylon left Ryan lying on the bed, and let himself out.

Hotels could feel both like the most welcoming or the most lonely places on earth, Waylon decided as he let himself out the back door. His feet crunched over the dry grass. Was that frost underfoot? He wasn't sure, and didn't feel like stopping for a closer look.

 _I should've flown_ , he thought morosely. He glanced furtively about, making sure Ryan hadn't decided to follow him, and fished a cigarette from the tin. Three and half days. Well, now two and a half. Driving… what had he been thinking? If he'd bought tickets for a plane, he could be there by now.

Waylon pulled out his smart phone and checked around for the nearest airports.

Durango, ironically. There was an airport in Durango about forty miles straight east.

He took a drag on his cigarette and debated about buying tickets online. At this point though, it seemed a waste. He'd have to fly back into Durango to recover the, eh, Durango. Having started by car, it seemed he'd committed himself.

 _Why do you always have to be so damned impulsive? So emotional?_ He asked himself as he sat down on a bench and stared up at the black night sky. _What's the worst that could happen to Monty even if he did decide to stay at Belledouleur for a spell?_

Unfortunately, Waylon thought he knew the answer.

The place had a tainted air to it.

Waylon Smithers Jr. had only been to Belledouleur Plantation once, a long time ago; when he was but a devoted servant to his Montgomery Burns. The fact that the place was still standing amazed him. The river had inched slowly closer each year, swallowing one back, and spitting silt in its wake on the opposite side.

Slowly, remorselessly it had begun to swallow the land like a python consumes its prey.

The town of Mortrouge had dwindled, each year losing a few more feet to the water's ceaseless hunger. By the time he and Monty had gone down to Belledouleur, the river had eaten most of the plantation's once expansive fields. Dozens, possibly hundreds of acres gone beneath the muddy waters.

 _Why do you even keep this place?_ Waylon had asked as he followed Burns down the tree-lined avenue, along a path overgrown with vines and hanging moss.

 _Why ask why, Smithers?_ Burns replied tersely. He led Waylon into the great room, still furnished after all these years, and bade him stay put while he looked for some things. Burns never specified what. He disappeared into gloom, leaving Waylon behind.

If ever there was a haunted place, Waylon decided, Belledouleur was it.

Fortunately, Burns had returned before too long, a moldy ledger book clutched under one arm. He extended his free arm to Waylon. Waylon, no stranger to his boss's perceived frailness took Burns' arm, and led him from the house. _Did you find what you were looking for, sir?_

 _Close enough, Smithers. This will have to do for now._

With that, they left, and not a moment too soon for Waylon's tastes. As they made their way down the row, they passed a massive marble stone, erected beside the road-walk to the plantation. _A moment_ , Burns said, shaking himself free of Waylon. _You stay here_ , he instructed.

Waylon did as he was told.

He watched as Montgomery Burns made his way to the massive stone, paused, and bowed his head. He stood motionless for so long that Waylon was beginning to debate coming over when he noticed what appeared to be eyes, watching from the shadowy trees. Small, gleaming eyes, unblinking in the cypress shadows.

 _Monty…_ he began nervously.

Burns raised his head, eyes oddly glassy. His expression was slightly vacant. That unsettled Waylon more than the eyes.

 _What now, man? Am I not entitled to a moment of remembrance?_ He clutched the ledger to his chest. _Yes, apparently I am not._ Burns licked his lips in an oddly unsettling way. It reminded Waylon of a wolf licking blood from its jaws. _We will go now, for your tender sensitivities; and much to my supreme annoyance. You worrisome habits grow tiring, you execrable churl._

Waylon would never forget the unhinged gleam lurking just behind Burns' eyes as he spoke.

He'd seen Burns irritated before, but 'execrable' and 'churl?' In all his years of being insulted by Charles Montgomery Burns, Waylon could not remember hearing those words before. It was as if someone else was speaking through Burns' voice. Waylon didn't like it, not one bit.

Months later, after their trip was but a memory, Waylon finally worked up the courage to ask Burns about Belledouleur. Why was it important? Why had they gone there in the first place?

 _My dear Smithers,_ Burns replied, much himself once again. _That was my childhood home. A place where I was nurtured and shaped by the steadfast tutelage of my grandfather, Wainwright. Ah, now there was a man one could be proud to know!_

The picture Burns painted with his words, of being raised in the lap of luxury by his doting grandfather after his parents could no longer care for him seemed almost too perfect to Waylon; but the man decided not to question Burns further.

Family was something Montgomery Burns seemed loathed to speak about.

Waylon realized his cigarette had burned down to the filter. A long cylinder of ash extended outward. He flicked it away in annoyance, pinched off the glowing coal, and stuffed the butt into his pocket. He debated lighting a second one, but a quick look at his pocket watch dispelled that idea.

If he wanted a drink, or even a quick bite to eat, he'd better move. The kitchen closed in half an hour. Had he really been sitting in the dark for so long? He shook his head as if to clear it, and tossed the cigarette butt into a convenient ashtray as he came to the lobby.

He passed into the cheerfully lit room, to the pub beyond… then he froze.

Sitting there, on a barstool, was the last man he expected to see at the bar.

Well, maybe second to last. The absolute last would've been Monty Burns in the flesh. No, this, alas, was not Burns.

His son, Ryan, was perched on a stool, a clearly 'adult' beverage by his right hand. He was alternately chatting with the bartender, and watching the TV. In that moment, Ryan hardly looked like a young boy. The curl of his shoulders, the way his rested his elbows at the edge of the wooden bar: he looked like a much older man. However old he seemed, Waylon knew the young man was still but a teen.

 _He's too young to be drinking_ , Waylon thought in annoyance. He swept in and pulled up a seat beside his son.

"Hello Ryan," he began carefully.

"S'up Waylon?" Ryan replied nonchalantly.

Waylon watched as Ryan prodded a lime slice to the bottom of his glass with a red cocktail straw. "What are you having tonight?"

Ryan's hazel eyes looked up, met his. The boy smiled leisurely, confidently. "A gin and tonic. Why do you ask?"

Waylon tilted his head towards the hallway. "Can I speak with you outside for a moment?"

Ryan gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "I'll be back," he told the bartender as he slid off the stool and followed albeit stubbornly, at the heels of his father.

"I don't want you drinking," Waylon hissed quietly, once they were out of earshot.

Ryan smirked. "Yeah? Why not?"

"You're not old enough?"

"Says my ID I am."

Waylon narrowed his eyes. "That's a fake, and you know it."

Ryan gave a cocky smile. "Really? And what do you intend to do about it?"

Waylon folded his arms across his chest, indignant. "That's irrelevant. I'm your father. I make the rules."

The smirk on Ryan's face took on a cold edge. "Oh no. No, no, no. You do _not_ get to do that."

"Do what?" Waylon asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

Ryan jabbed a finger at Waylon's chest. "You do not suddenly get to play the parent card just because you just learned you have a son. No way. For the record, I got on just fine without you all these years, and I will not tolerate you suddenly deciding you get to make the rules just because you think you're entitled because you got mom pregnant."

His son's insolent tone, it was hard for Waylon to stay calm. He wasn't used to being sassed at by, well, anyone! No one in Springfield would dare talk to him that way. If they did, he'd have them quickly put in their place. He was Waylon Joseph Smithers… and a Burns! How dare some young pup mouth off to him.

Waylon felt his face reddening, his heart start to beat harder.

"Ryan," he began slowly.

"Waylon," Ryan mimicked back.

"There is no reason a boy your age should be drinking alcohol. It's not good for you, and it could cause you serious problems. It's easy to get in over your head."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "It's one gin and tonic. By the way, please tell me again how horrible drinking is when, at the time you were my age, the legal age was eighteen? How did an entire generation of adults manage when they were ruining their fragile teenage minds with alcohol? And, explain to me the logic that I could've joined the military and been shot in some foreign country whose name I can't even pronounce… but alcohol is dangerous? Please. I can vote, and I can fight in combat. _Those_ are the dangerous things. Right? Right. Now, if you'll excuse me, _Waylon_ , I am going to finish my drink."

Ryan shouldered his way past Waylon, and returned to his seat at the bar.

Waylon clenched his fists tightly, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Were all teenagers this difficult, or had he just a choice pick? And really, he asked himself, what was he objecting to? Ryan had raised valid points.

Control, he decided.

It was a control thing.

Waylon Smithers was used to handling the reins on all aspects in his life. Even in his relationship with Burns he had a surprising amount of influence on the tycoon's actions. What was that they said: the Dominant gives commands, but the Submissive has the power to say "no"? It was something like that. It was most definitely true. For all that Waylon preferred to take the subservient role, he had learned exactly how much power he wielded in his intimate dynamic with C. Montgomery Burns. While Waylon was not the sort to enjoy power for power's sake, he was not used to being challenged.

Encountering someone who didn't naturally bow down to his authority? He wasn't used to that. Throw in that he was dealing with his own son, and it was like trying to argue with himself. Ryan had a quick wit, and a smart mouth to match.

Waylon watched Ryan slowly sip his drink.

Finally, he relented. With a sigh, returned to the bar and settled into a seat next to Ryan. He was debating what to say, when Ryan spoke first.

"It's okay," Ryan said gently, hazel eyes oddly soft. "You're just figuring this out. I am too. So let's give it time, okay?" He gestured to the empty space in front of Waylon. "What'll you have? I'll buy you a drink."

Waylon laughed in spite of himself. He rested his head in his hand and regarded his son thoughtfully. "You… will buy me a drink?"

Ryan give a placid shrug. "Sure, why not? I'm billing them to your room anyhow."

For some reason, that struck Waylon as humorous. There was something in the boy's casual attitude, his jaunty disposition and lack of fear in the face of authority. "Has anyone ever mentioned you can be quite cheeky?"

Ryan shrugged. "Mitty might've said something like that. Or it might've been 'f-ing a-hole punk.' I'm not sure. But same gist, right?"

"Not exactly," Waylon replied with a smile. "But probably similar." He ordered a vodka tonic, and glanced at his watch again. "It's getting late, and we've got a long drive again tomorrow."

Ryan prodded the lime that was little more than green mush by then. "If you'd let me drive, you could take a break."

"Can you drive? A car I mean."

Ryan made a so-so gesture with his hand. "I, uh, borrowed Mitty's car once. I might've kinda ran it onto the curb, but it was okay. He was pretty pissed off though." Ryan looked like he wasn't sure if he should be amused or embarrassed by the memory.

Waylon wasn't sure either. "How about we wait on the Durango then," he suggested. "I appreciate the offer, but…" Waylon paused. "I can teach you to drive on the access roads back at the estate. Even Mammon doesn't have much traffic on it. That's a good place to learn."

Ryan's eyes lit up. "Can I drive the Aston Martin?"

Now it was Waylon's turn to smirk. "You most absolutely may not!"

Another exaggerated sigh. "Fine, fine. Not the Martin. I'll take the Ferrari then."

Waylon laughed and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "How about the Durango? It's durable, and it's got good ground clearance. You know, it case you want to run it up the curb or something." He was expecting Ryan to shrug himself free. He was pleasantly surprised when the young man didn't resist his touch.

"Okay," Ryan said. "The Durango. But maybe, you can let me practice a bit on the way down?"

Persistent, Waylon thought, regarding his son thoughtfully. "Maybe… but don't bet count on it." He finished his vodka tonic and gave Ryan's shoulder a fatherly squeeze. "Come on, we've got a long road and an early morning ahead of us. It's time for bed."

* * *

Ryan Smithers lay on his back, his knees folded up, a book in his hands.

"Aren't you going to bed?" his father asked from the bed across from him. "Meh," replied Ryan. "I wanted to read for a bit."

His father propped himself up on an arm. "What are you reading?" Waylon asked.

" _The Glass Menagerie_ , by Tennessee Williams," Ryan replied, holding up the well-worn book for Waylon to see.

Waylon removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He flopped down and drew an arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. "Interesting choice, Ryan."

"It's one of my favorites." Ryan made a neutral gesture. "I don't know. I just like it, is all." He glanced over at his father who was squinting at the screen of an .mp3 player.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Waylon replied. "Do you mind if I listen to music?" he asked as he unraveled a set of ear buds.

"Do you mind if I have the light on?" Ryan replied, watching closely.

Waylon shook his head. "It doesn't bother me."

"Then enjoy your music," Ryan replied, and returned his attention to the book.

Ryan had read the story more times than he could count. He knew all the characters by heart, could probably have recited the entire play if he had to. Once he was sure his father wasn't paying attention, he pulled the book to his face, buried his nose between the pages and sniffed deeply. The scent of home still lingered on the pages. Ryan closed the book, lest the aromatic memories escape, and held it to his chest.

 _The Glass Menagerie_ wasn't a survival story like the ones he used to read as a child; and yet it felt similar. It was a tale about a young man who ultimately chose to follow his own path in the world. Survival, but of a different sort, Ryan felt.

He reached over, and turned off the light, but didn't let go of his book.

It was strange, he thought as he rolled over and slid it under his pillow. Spending time with his father, getting to know the man. He wasn't anything like Ryan had expected. He was confident, but unassuming for the most part. He didn't try to pull rank. He treated Ryan like an adult.

What will we do, after this is done? Ryan asked himself.

In some ways, he was grateful that Burns guy had flown the coop. It gave him a chance to get to know his father without some other person mucking it all up. His father seemed… normal. He wasn't a complete ass like Ryan had suspected, nor was he some spineless coward who obsessed over Burns.

Maybe he was once, Ryan thought. Or maybe, that's how he is around Burns.

Ryan rubbed his eyes, and realized he still had his glasses on.

How many times in his life had he fallen asleep wearing them? More than he could count, probably. He took them off, set them on the nightstand beside his father's, rolled over, and let sleep overtake him.


	10. Chapter 10

Ryan Smithers woke up to the sound of the door closing. He reached up, grabbed his glasses and shoved them onto his face. It was his father coming in, a towel draped around his shoulders.

"You're awake," Waylon remarked as he ran the towel over his damp hair. "Ready to hit the road?"

Ryan sat up, pushing the blanket off, and swung his thin legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face numbly. "Breakfast?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.

"There's a continental going on in the lobby," replied Waylon. "It looks pretty nice. They have eggs, waffles, a fruit bar…"

Groggily, Ryan tried to listen as his father listed off the various foods he'd seen. It was too much to make sense of. Ryan, like many his age, was not a morning person. Given his choice, he'd sleep till mid-morning if he could. His first period classes in high school had been the bane of his existence. Who on earth thought it would be a good idea to start the morning with calculus at eight AM? Ryan was sure he didn't know.

He straightened the cuffs of his boxers and looked at his bare feet for a moment. With a grunt and a sigh, he pushed himself. "I'm going to go get breakfast then," he said, pulling on a pair of dark jeans and the same white athletic shirt he'd worn the day before. It looked clean, smelled clean. It was fine. "Are you getting breakfast?" he asked Waylon as he fumbled with his shoes.

Waylon shook his head. "I don't generally take breakfast."

"Where'd you go then?" Ryan asked.

"For a run," replied his father as he pulled a set of clean clothes from his travel bag. "Then I finished up with some weight lifting and a quick dip in the pool."

Ryan glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's only seven in the morning," he observed. "You did that already?"

His father paused, glanced up. "I got into the habit of working out early in the morning years ago. Now, if I don't, I can't feel quite right for the rest of the day."

Ryan couldn't think of anything to say to that. He grunted, and stuck his key card in his pocket. "Okay. So, when are we leaving?"

"After you're done with breakfast," Waylon answered. "But take your time."

* * *

Ryan ate in silence, watching the few patrons around him. It was mostly truckers and business folk, it seemed. Pleasant types, but the sort to keep to themselves. The television in the corner was showing the news. He ate quickly, lost in thought.

It felt strange to be on his own, stranger still to be with his father. He didn't know how to act around the man. The man was pleasant, yet reserved. Ryan found himself increasingly at odds with his own emotions.

His mind was a confused mess of feelings he wasn't even sure how to identify. On one hand, he found he was actually enjoying his time with Waylon; that made him both happy and guilty at the same time. He felt both glad to spend time with his father, and yet it was as if he were somehow betraying his mother's memory by enjoying his father's company. Happiness and guilt, those were two feelings he could pick out from the mess.

There was sadness too, and denial. Sometimes, he could almost disbelieve his mother was actually dead. It wasn't intentional. It came on without warning. He knew, rationally, she was gone. But it was as if his feelings hadn't quite gotten the memo.

When they'd pass an interesting scene or city, he found a surge of anticipation. _I can't wait to tell Mom about this!_ his brain would cheer. Then reality would rise up and hit him like a truck. There was no more 'mom' to tell this to. The only one he'd get to share the moments with was himself. He'd withdrawn back into himself, and try to block out the world.

And his father? Well, that wasn't any less confusing.

Waylon was the only family he had now.

Every fiber in his lonely body cried out to latch onto Waylon, cling to his father, and never let go.

Pride on the other hand kept him from reaching out. He was a man, not a little boy. He was too old to need someone else like that. And even, he rationalized, if he wasn't too old, if he bonded with his father he'd be betraying his mother. So really, what choice did he have?

 _None, I guess_ , he concluded.

Ryan was into his second bowl of fruit when a shadow passed over the table. He looked up. His father was standing there, both their bags slung across his shoulders. "How're you doing?" Waylon asked, not yet sitting down.

Ryan stared at the table. How was he doing anyhow. He thought for a minute. Eventually, he gave the only answer that felt honest.

"I think I'm going to explode."

His father put a hand on his shoulder. "Did you eat too much?"

"Not like that," Ryan replied, drawing away from Waylon's hand on principle.

Waylon must've sensed Ryan's discomfort. He removed his hand, and took a step back, giving the young man some space.

Ryan immediately regretted his actions, and missed his father's proximity.

He looked at the remaining fruit, and realized he'd lost his appetite. "No," he replied, "I'm good. We can go now."

* * *

The next hours were spent in the Durango, Ryan alternating between moments of conversation, and silence. They listened to the radio but nothing seemed particularly catch. Finally Waylon asked if he could plug his .mp3 player into the stereo. Ryan shrugged, and connected it.

He scrolled through his father's extensive music collection.

"You like some of everything, don't you," he observed after reading through a playlist dedicated to classical guitar and other stringed instruments.

Waylon smiled. "That's one thing my mother and I always had in common. She loved music, all types. Was quite skilled at the piano too."

Ryan's ears pricked up. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face. "Do you play an instrument?" he asked.

Surprisingly, his father blushed. "I, eh, yes."

"Like what?" Ryan pushed. In highschool, Ryan and his friends had formed a garage band for a time. They played mostly alternative rock and occasionally grunge music. It hadn't lasted long, mostly because none of their parents wanted them practicing in their garages, so, due to lack of practice space, the band broke apart. He'd played an electric bass guitar. Nothing fancy or expensive, but he'd enjoyed it. Up till he sold it, that is. The memory turned bitter sweet. He sighed, and hoped Waylon hadn't noticed.

"I… I play the piano. Also guitar, both acoustic and electric. I can play the banjo… that's a long story there." Waylon hesitated. "I also can play the harp."

His dad could do all that? Ryan tried not to look impressed. Conversely, he forced himself to look as _unimpressed_ as possible. He shifted his position, and folded his legs so he was curled up in the seat, leaning against the window. "Oh? That's it?"

Waylon didn't take his eyes off the road. "Well, I can sing too. And I wrote a musical. It was performed in Albuquerque several years ago. It never got the fame I was hoping for, but it was something I needed to do; if that makes sense."

Ryan ran a hand along his chin thoughtfully. "Why? And how'd you ever manage to get the time for that?"

Waylon's grin widened. "Oh, Monty, _Mister_ Burns, he gave me the time off to do it. I'd always wanted to write this musical, and what with work and all, there wasn't the time. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask him, and he said 'yes.'" Waylon chuckled. "Sure, he teased me about it, but then he gave me the time off to make it happen."

"So he just let you do it?"

Waylon furrowed his brow. "Of course! Why wouldn't he?"

Ryan snorted. "Do I really need to answer that? You know what I think of him."

"You don't even know him," Waylon replied, tone defensive. "For the record, he's not as one-dimensional as you seem to think he is. Sure, Mister Burns can be callous, ill-tempered, and difficult to know, but that's not all he is."

Ryan picked at his fingernails and tried to appear casual. Now they were getting somewhere. He waited, hoping his father would reveal more. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

Waylon continued. "He's… complicated. Our whole friendship can be summed up in that word, honestly. Yes, sometimes he can seem downright cruel, but whenever it's been something truly important to me, he's always been there to support it. Or the time, two times I suppose, that I almost died. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't wait till the last minute to show me how much he cares, but he does."

Ryan's chest felt suddenly tight. Almost died? As in, he could've been an orphan? As in, he might've never had a chance to even know his father? Ryan felt like he couldn't breathe. In his mind's eye, he saw himself standing at two grave stones, one for his mother, and one for the father he'd barely known.

Quickly, Ryan turned his face away from Waylon and wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

"Ryan," his father asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"You almost died," Ryan replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I wouldn't have had anyone if you did."

"Hey, hey," his father coaxed gently. "But I didn't, right? I'm here, now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Ryan sniffled, feeling both overwhelmed and embarrassed in one. "How'd it happen, anyhow?"

Waylon sighed. "Well, I have thyroid condition. Without my medication, well, I could die. Long story short, I wasn't able to afford it once. My throat nearly swelled shut. Monty? He moved pretty much moved heaven and earth to get my medication to me. If he hadn't, if it had been much longer, I probably would've died."

"Why not just go to the hospital?" Ryan asked, staring out the window.

"There was a shortage of prescription medications in Springfield. Even the hospital couldn't have gotten it in time. Mister Burns, he's a powerful man. He has a way of getting what he wants, what he needs."

Ryan rubbed his aching chest, trying to massage the tension away. "Right," he replied dryly. "And the second time?"

Now it was Waylon's turn to sound disgusted. "That was my fault. I... I took the Martin out for a joy ride. I don't honestly remember what happened. Apparently I lost control and collided side-on with a telephone pole. The pole snapped in half, and the car basically exploded. When I came too in the hospital Monty was there. I guess he hadn't left my side the whole time I'd been unconscious. He didn't say it, but I knew how scared he'd been. I could see it in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days."

Ryan listened to his father's words, the older man's tone. There was a sadness to it that Ryan didn't quite understand.

"So if he does all that, why does he act like such a jerk?"

"He's complicated."

"You say that a lot," Ryan replied. "What's that even mean, anyhow? 'Complicated.'"

"I mean," explained "Waylon, that his life wasn't exactly the happiest and he'd had some pretty horrible things done to him. It skewed his outlook on the world, and the people in it."

Ryan, feeling more in control of his emotions, situated himself so he could watch Waylon, give the man his full attention once again. "Such as…?" he asked.

"Monty's father, Clifford, was a loving man. Over-protective, but he only wanted the best for his family. Unfortunately, Monty wasn't raised by his father. He was raised by his grandfather, Wainwright. That man, I don't know if there's an instability in Monty's family, or if the man was simply a monster. I'm not even sure it matters. All I know is I'm glad he's dead." He spat the last words with a harshness Ryan hadn't seen before.

"After I went with Monty to Wainwright's plantation, and let me tell you that place should've been demolished decades ago, he came back acting not quite himself. We were only there for an afternoon, and yet it was enough to make him act… different. Cruel." Waylon held up a hand, raising it from the wheel. "Now, I know what you're going to say Ryan, that he's probably usually cruel… and in some ways, you'd be right… but not like this. There was a certain savagery to his demeanor that I hadn't seen before. Fortunately, after several days at home he was back to normal. But Belledouleur, that place, it got in his head."

Waylon dropped his hand back on the wheel, and glanced at the fuel gauge. They'd have to stop soon.

"I didn't know much about Wainwright, so once we got home, I started looking up everything I could find. It wasn't easy, the internet wasn't what it is now. But I found a few things. More than I wanted to." He sighed. "The man was a tyrant. And not in any metaphorical sense; a truly literal one! One of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest plantation owners during the antebellum era. Before the war, there was already a reputation for his cruelty towards his slaves. After the war, when slavery was illegal, rumors of a mass grave of former slaves on his property. There were other strange stories too, but they might have been legends. Animals born deformed, with extra legs, or missing eyes. Things like that. Those I could discount, but then I read about how a the children of sharecroppers tended to wind up missing on his plantation, never to be found again. Of course, they blamed it on the alligators in the nearby swamps, but some people started to say that Wainwright was dabbling in dark things no man should fool around with."

Waylon tilted his head. "At the same time though, he was still a prominent member of society. He hosted elaborate parties at his plantation. Some speculated that rumors had merely been started by those jealous of him. And yet, let me be perfectly honest with your Ryan, if I had my way, I would've burned that place to the ground as soon as I left."

"Why?" Ryan asked, perplexed.

His father gave a mirthless laugh. "Why? Have you ever been someplace that just felt _wrong_ , somehow? Like it wasn't part of the natural order of things?" Waylon gave another short chuckle. "God, I probably sound like I'm the one with issues here, but I don't know what to say. That place, if ever a piece of land and house could be evil, that place is."

Ryan shifted. He could relate to a degree.

When he was a child, there had been an abandoned house next to a vacant lot a few streets down. It hadn't even been a particularly old house, but there were a lot of stories about it.

There were all manner of rumors about it: that it was haunted, that a murderer once hid bodies there. Kids would dare each other to go up on to the porch and knock on the door. The place, despite being abandoned, remained relatively free of vandalism or graffiti; as if no one were brave enough to mark it.

Mitty had dared Ryan to actually go inside once. Ryan had replied only if Mitty went too. After a game of trash-talking, which was more just a way to delay actually approaching the house, Mitty and Ryan decided they'd go in together. They'd made it across the porch, and were just about to try the front door when the wind must've changed, or something. The door swung open on its own.

Screaming like little girls, Mitty and Ryan nearly fell over each other in an attempt to flee. They didn't stop running for several blocks.

Finally, in an ally beside the dumpster for the bakery, Mitty stopped. Ryan, panting as if his lungs would burst leaned against the wall next to him. _I wasn't scared_ , Mitty gasped, trying to catch his breath. _I was just trying to scare you_.

 _I wasn't scared either_ , Ryan replied as he sucked air greedily into his burning lungs. _I was just playing along._

The two boys had tried to laugh, but it didn't feel natural. It was a lie. They both knew they'd never been more terrified of anything in their lives. Neither one of them ever went near that abandoned row house again. Even now, years later, thinking about it still caused the hair on Ryan's neck and arms to rise.

"Yes," Ryan said, remembering. "I know that feeling."

"That place, it's not good for Monty's head," explained Waylon Smithers after they'd stopped for a bathroom break, and fuel. "Honestly, I don't know whether it's from the memories of his grandfather, or if it's from Belledouleur itself. Frankly I don't care either. Maybe this time, I _will_ set it on fire behind us. It would be a fitting end to that past. And Wainwright," Waylon continued bitterly, "he's one of the few people in the world I can say it's good he's gone. I never even met him, and I'm glad he's dead."  
Ryan watched the dry desert lowland through the window. "Why would you say that?"

"Oh, Ryan, I don't want to talk about this. Can we pick a cheerier topic for a while?"

"I suppose," agreed Ryan. He watched the ever-flattening land, skyline reflecting in his eyes. After a moment, he broke the silence. "I still kind of want to travel along Route 66 someday," he confessed.

"We're on it," replied Waylon with a grin.

Ryan sat up and pushed himself forward om his seat. "Whoa! We are?"

Waylon nodded. "Yep! Heading east, of course, and eventually in Texas we'll be getting off it. But for now, we're traveling along the mother road of America."

Ryan's eyes lit up. "Cool!" he exclaimed. He rolled down the window, oblivious to the wind and desert heat and leaned out as far as his seatbelt would allow. His black hair whipped around his face. Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Mmmm, it even smells like Route 66!" He grinned and pulled his head back in. "Hey, Waylon, is this really Route 66? You're not just saying that, are you?"

Waylon gestured to a tiny white speck up ahead. "There's a route marker. Tell you what, I'll pull over. You can get out and see for yourself."

Ryan could barely contain his excitement. He wrestled with his seatbelt and rolled down the window again. Thrusting his head and shoulders out as far as he could, he tilted his head back and gave a hooting call of delight into the rushing wind. He squinted at the rapidly approaching sign, wriggling with excitement as he felt the car slowing.

Waylon had barely come to a stop before Ryan scrabbled to release his seatbelt, and leapt out. He ran up to the sign, jumped up and gave it a victory slap with his fingertips. "How long have we been on Route 66?" he asked, half-sprinting to the Durango, then back to the sign.

His father leaned on the car, arms folded lightly across his chest. "Oh, about a hundred miles now." He gestured to the sign. "Go stand over there, Ryan. Let me get your picture."

Ryan skipped and quickly swung himself into position next to the road marker. "Is there enough light?"

Waylon nodded. "The sun's from the west. It'll look great, that sort of golden glow…" He raised his smartphone, and took several shots, then walked to Ryan and handed him the camera. "Take a look," he offered. "What do you think?"

Ryan swiped through several frames, and beamed. "They look great!" He paused, expression growing serious for just a minute. He looked into his father's brown eyes, suddenly feeling shy. "Hey… dad… do you mind standing there? I can get a picture of you, too."

He watched his father's face flicker from surprised to happy, then finally something he couldn't even recognize. Whatever it was though, it was a good thing. He took a spot next to the sign, and wrapped an arm around the post.

"Just like that," Ryan approved. "Say cheese."

His father obligingly replied; the smile on his face was truly genuine. Ryan snapped a few shots, then beamed. "Here," he said, handing the smartphone back to Waylon. Ryan blushed suddenly, and looked at his feet. He kicked a rock, and glanced up shyly as they made their way back to the Durango.

"Hey Waylon?"

"Yes, Ryan?"

Ryan couldn't meet his father's gaze, but he tried nonetheless. "Thanks. No, really. I mean it. Thank you."

Waylon reached out a hand, and Ryan didn't shy away. He grasped his father's wrist firmly, and felt Waylon's fingers wrap around his own. "It was my pleasure, Ryan. It's good to see you happy."

 _Happy, yeah_ , Ryan thought as Waylon put the car in gear and picked up speed. It was good, wasn't it. He smiled, watching the sun set in the rearview mirror. Without a word, he and his father cut their path along the fabled mainstreet of America, siding into the twilight of the east.


	11. Chapter 11

**_March 14th, 1888_**

 _Another year has come and gone. Another Thanksgiving, and the Christmas Ball lie in the past. Charles has finally started coming into his own. It was a delight to see how he conducted himself at the Ball, standing beside me. He presented, not as a child like I'd feared, but as a young lord himself. Even, dare I say it, taking steps to ensure obsequence from servant and guest alike._

 _Most delightfully, he enjoyed it!_

 _He handled it graciously, of course._ _I've explained to him that how we treat commoners and the servants ought not be confused with the grace that we treat our esteemed guests and peers. "It hardly does, Charles, to disoblige those who we either seek to impress, or from whom we might use in the future._ _A lone king on an isolated mountain top has a magnificent view, and is ruler of nothing."_

 _It is through utilization of the common man, and the reserved trades with one's associates that give one a much broader network of power and influence. Of course, a healthy dose of fear goes a long way as well; but as I told him, we needn't wear that little gift on our sleeves. A person or beast constantly exposed to fear becomes desensitized, numb. Influence is lost. Fear is a potent herb to add to the broth, and one that must be used judiciously._

 _Fear blends especially well when a margin of hope is tossed in._

 _"Why, dear Charles, you can keep men hanging on to you for a lifetime if you but alternate those two critical elements with an artful hand," I told him._

 _"Give them just enough to believe they have a chance, and they'll keep trying, Grandfather?" he echoed as he pieced it together in his brain. "No hope, and people give up. No fear, and they become complacent." He nodded as he processed that truth. "It is not entirely unlike how you handle Wildfell, is it, Grandfather? You meter out reward and consequence to him; and he's made all the more loyal for it."_

 _Oh, but how I could've swept the boy to my breast and embraced him in delight if my nature and bones would've permitted it. Alas, he has grown since his first arrival. My days of lifting him as a reward are passed._

 _Regardless, the lad gleaned onto that facet brightly, and in that moment I was never so proud of a child as I was of him. I enfolded him in my arms, and kiss him on the forehead before lifting his face to mine._

 _"Dear Charles," I said, brushing his wavy brown hair back from his blue eyes, "you have me in awe. Pray tell me, my lad, how came you to be so astute?" He hesitated and I didn't wait for a reply before pulling him towards me again and rested his head under my chin. "Charles, my lad, in this moment, I am truly proud of you. Though I may be your grandfather by lineage, call me Father by patrimony. From henceforth, as long as I shall live, you are my son."_

 _The way his face came alive when I spoke that to him. The brightness that lit his eyes. He smiled, sure, and I tried to react in kind. As enthusiastic a mien as ever Wildfell ever wagged his tail as a pup! The boy is so hungry for my praise, and those are just words._

 _Words._

 _Mere words._

 _Powerful words._

 _The boy is so eager for acceptance and approval. And why oughtn't he be? I am, after all, the primary contact in his life. At times, I am actually glad Evelyn is no longer with me. She would coddle the boy, spoil him, come between what I am trying to achieve. All the best is I can do this with honesty. I've never lied to him, nor in speaking my feelings did I then. For I was truly proud, and I do without question consider him my son from hereon._

 _Perhaps had I tried more deliberately with Clifford I could've succeeded in shaping him. Was it my own hubris in assuming that blood alone would be enough to elevate him to the ideals which I hold so strongly? Was it gentle Evelyn's influences that sabotaged my designs? Perhaps even a shortcoming in her own blood that passed on to him? Mayhaps. Or, as always, there is the chance that Clifford would've always been the anomalous weak limb. It is irrelevant. He is gone, and well replaced._

 _Regardless, I have now been successful when in the past I was cursed with failure in the past. This boy, this delightful, sharp, and ambitious boy. He is coming to be exactly as I had hoped. An heir I can be proud of! I am pleased to call him Son._

 _\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. March 14th, 1888_


	12. Chapter 12

Waylon Smithers drove for the rest of the afternoon, and Ryan helped navigate. The miles continued to roll away, and their time was spaced between conversation and silence. Eventually, they left Route 66; Ryan watching over his shoulder, and giving the highway a goodbye wave. They moved south and east, passing beyond the arid "cattle scrub" as Waylon called it, and into crop fields.

That night they pulled into a roadside motel. It was a place that Ryan loved almost immediately.

Unlike the modern chain motel they'd stayed in the night before, this one tottered between hopelessly antiquated, and delightfully kitsch. The décor was eclectic, retro. Waylon watched Ryan peering, bright-eyed, into a case of old fans and vintage movie memorabilia.

It was like watching Lydia at a swap-meet. Ryan had that same stopped posture, leaning in to examine everything, and the unbridled joy that lit his face when he saw some particular knickknack that caught his eye. Ryan truly was their son, he observed. He felt an odd feeling in his stomach, somewhere between nostalgia and remorse. His mind was full of memories as he got ready for bed: Lydia, and the good times they'd had together. _It wasn't all bad_ , he thought as he rolled over. _Ryan's right. I should've handled that better_ , he thought as he drifted off the sleep.

The next morning, they started the final leg of their journey.

* * *

Waylon didn't speak much for most of the drive. His mind had moved from Lydia back to Montgomery Burns. He wondered how Burns was getting on. His mind kept generating all manner of scenarios, each worse than the last. Monty Burns getting lost in the swamp, Monty Burns injured on the road. What if he never even made it to Belledouleur? What if he'd been assaulted by squatters? What if he were _dead?_

Waylon's all-to-vivid imagination presented each scene in painfully crisp detail. He saw Monty Burns lying in a pool of blood in center of the grand hall, a savage wound on the back of his head made by some blunt object.

No, Waylon snapped at himself. Don't go there. He'll be fine. Or as fine as he can be. He's not as helpless as you think he is.

The hours crept by.

The sun grew closer to the horizon before finally falling over the edge. Shadows darkened, turned to night.

Still Waylon drove.

Waylon had been pushing himself hard, mercilessly closing the distance between themselves and Mortrouge. Ryan was beginning to show signs of the long journey. Eventually, Ryan crawled into the back of the Durango and curled up in an exhausted heap.

By Waylon's estimate, they'd arrive in Colien, the largest city near Mortrouge around ten that night. However, he was still a good hour or more away from Colien. Waylon steeled himself for the final push. It would be far too late that evening to attempt going further, and Waylon knew there would be no place to stay once they arrived at Mortrouge.

After what seemed like ages, Waylon pulled into the Colien Motel parking lot and turned off the engine. "You made it, Waylon; more dead than alive," he muttered, resting his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment and closing his eyes. He didn't linger too long though It would hardly do to fall asleep like that, though Waylon had no doubt he could've.

With a groan and a sigh he pushed himself straight.

He reached back between the seats, and gently shook Ryan awake.

Ryan mumbled something, and covered his face with an arm.

Waylon shook him, more vigorously this time.

"Okay, okay, I'm up." Ryan ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. "Are we there yet," he asked, putting on his glasses and blinking around the dark parking lot, confused.

Waylon shook his head. "We're still a town over from Mortrouge. The village of Colien. There's no point even trying to get to Belledouler after dark. Those swamps can be dangerous at the best of times, and even the roads from Colien to Mortrouge weren't the best last time I was here. I doubt they've improved with age. We'll stay here tonight."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

Ryan grunted in acknowledgement, and pushed the door open. He made a face. "Ug, it's muggy."

The sky was dark, and starless. The sky was misty, overcast. Waylon had been expecting some sort of glow from the cities nearby, then he shook himself. There were no cities nearby. They were in deep Cajun country, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of any major cities. The drone of the insects was deafening in the hot, moist air. They got themselves a room, simple, but cozy. Being as tired as they were, neither man even noticed the details of the room.

* * *

The roads from Colien to Mortrouge had not been well-maintained the last time Waylon had travelled them, nearly two decades ago. He had no reason to suspect they'd be any better now.

The roads still managed to fail even his low expectations. The drive wasn't far, but the crumbled pavement left the narrow road in want of repair. The Durango bucked along over the dips and potholes. Waylon wasn't taking it particularly gentle either. He drove quicker than would be advisable, ignoring the obvious discomfort of the car and its passengers.

The road widened as they got closer to town.

Once, over a hundred years ago, Mortrouge had been a prosperous little town, right on the edge of Cajun and Plantation country. With the shifting waters, the town's residents had left in search of drier lands. Though the area was still mostly clear of vegetation, the rows of brick buildings had a decidedly weary feel.

The last time Waylon had been through Mortrough, he noticed a handful of empty storefronts. This time, there were too many to count. A heavy fog hung in the air. Ryan put his hand up, as if somehow that would help him see more clearly. "This is it?"

"Mortrouge? Yes."

"It doesn't look like I was expecting," Ryan admitted, face creasing in thought.

Waylon drove the Durango down a south-running avenue, then cut onto a west road. "What were you expecting?" he asked as they passed a gas station.

"More swamps. Houses on stilts. Stuff like that." Ryan gestured to a block of brick building lined neatly in a row. "This could be any town. I was expecting something more 'bayou.'"

Waylon clucked his tongue. "That's swamp living. Mortrouge isn't there yet. There's a lot of quaint old towns in Louisiana."

They passed a sagging town hall, the roman-columned front cracked and peeling. "But Mortrouge isn't one of them. Not anymore."

Ryan watched the building fade into the distance as they headed down another avenue. "What happened?"

 _Wainwright happened_ , Waylon thought to himself. He shook his head. "After the Civil War, life changed down here. Some towns survived, others died."

"This one's still alive, right?" Ryan asked. His tone was oddly plaintive, seeking reassurance.

Waylon gave Ryan a sad smile. He tried to reply, but found he couldn't find the words. After a few false starts, he gave up and focused on the road. They were at the edge of town, close to the swamps.

Like Belledouleur itself, Waylon suspected in a few more years Mortrouge would fall off the maps as well. Aside from the derelict airport and its long runway, there was very little alive in Mortrouge anymore. Waylon secretly wondered if it was only because of Burns' influence that the airport and runway were maintained at all.

He pulled into a driveway at the edge of a slow moving muddy waterway. Several docks extended into the water, boats moored along their edges; and beside them a relatively maintained wooden building. A sign hung from the front porch. "Alphonse's Boat Livery and Bait," it proclaimed in hand-painted red letters. Beneath that, were the words "River Tours and Fishing Trips. Guide for Hire."

Waylon stepped out of the car, and straightened his blazer. It was uncomfortably hot, but the familiar clothes offered reassurance. It gave him a sense of control in a situation that seemed to have spiraled beyond his means to rein it in.

He heard the passenger door to the Durango open and shut, and the patter of feet as Ryan hurried to catch up.

* * *

Ryan Smithers watched as his father strode confidently onto the porch, past a few "bug zapper" lights. He let himself in through a screen door with a hanging tin sign that simply said "open."

By the time Ryan had made it inside, his father was already in the middle of a rapid negotiation with an ancient-looking man behind the counter. Ryan could barely make out a word of it. It sounded like he was speaking a combination of English and French, with a heavy, mushy accent. Ryan noted his father seemed comfortable with the dialect, responding in kind.

There was one bit though, that Ryan was able to make out clearly.

"Belledouleur? Mais non! Say, dat your boiy over thaire?"

"My son, yes," Waylon replied.

The man made a gesture with his hand. " _I won't have a hand in bring a child over that cursed ground. That land's hainted. Even the river won't swallow it, that's how foul the place be. You're best leaving it well enough alone."_ He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm looking for a man. I have every reason to believe he's gone to Belledouler."

" _Light a candle in his memory then, and let it go."_

"I need a boat. If you don't want to rent me one…" Waylon paused, looking up the river. "I'll have to make it on foot."

Ryan drew in his breath. His father was serious. The look in his eyes was one of sheer determination. Ryan knew that look; he'd worn it himself. It was the expression he bore when nothing could change his mind.

" _Angels and saints preserve me. You're mad. And you'll be dooming that boy's life too. But if you're hellbound, the least I can do is lend you supplies_." Alphonse gestured to a flat-bottomed boat with an outboard motor and a pair of long oars. " _You take that johnboat there. Ordinarily, I'd say pay me when you return, but I don't want to gamble on that. So, we'll settle up now, before you go._ "

Waylon nodded. "Fair enough."

A handful of bills was exchanged. Alphonse counted them, then tucked them into the pocket of his dungarees. He brought over a fuel tank from the supply shed, and hooked it to the motor. He squeezed a bulb in the fuel line several times to prime it. The engine was a manual start. Alphonse gave the zip-cord a practiced yank, spinning the engine to life. It ran, a plume of grey smoke wafting up into the air.

Ryan immediately recognized the familiar smell of two-stroke engine exhaust. It smelled like his motorcycle.

Alphonse ran the motor, adjusted the throttle and choke, then shut it down.

" _She runs as well as ever you could hope,_ " he said, stepping back onto the dock.

"Thank you," Waylon said, extended his hand to Alphonse.

The man smiled graciously, but refused to shake it. " _I don't want to be passing the luck of the dead. No._ " he said, tucking his hands under his crossed arms. " _If you return, I'll shake your hand then."_ He gave Ryan a nod. _"And good luck to you, young fils_."

Waylon climbed into the boat, and gestured for Ryan to join him.

Ryan did, grabbing the gunwales nervously as he settled onto the seat. The boat was a simple, flat-bottomed "tin boat." Several seats were molded in, hollow, but sealed. Floatation. Even if the boat became completely full of water, it still wouldn't sink under. His father and Alphonse untiled the mooring ropes.

Alphonse gave them a shove into the open waterway, and stepped back. He made a gesture, extending the index and pinky fingers of his left hand, while curling his middle and ring fingers against his thumb. He kissed his thumb, and held the hand up. With his right, he crossed himself. That done, he turned and went back into his shop. He did not look back.

The boat was slowly drifting into a current.

"Ready?" Waylon asked.

Ryan packed himself up into the wide, sloping bow and drew his knees up to his chest. He leaned over the gunwales and peered into the opaque brown-green water. It was like staring into coffee… or paint. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribs.

He glanced up at his father and nodded once. "Let's go."

Waylon nodded, gave the engine a pull, and throttled against the currents, piloting them deeper into the murky swamp.

* * *

Ryan Smithers kept himself wedged at the bow of the boat, watching the water slip away. It was almost hypnotic, the way the bow waves seemed to break. After a while, it seemed to him that the water was moving, and they were standing still.

He started to see pictures in the waves.

A herd of white horses was racing across brown earth, leaping and cavorting. Or maybe they were hippocampi, sea-horses of legend, racing each other through the ocean breakers. Time felt weird, seemed to slow down.

Dreamily he reached a hand towards the water…

… The boat lurched suddenly to port.

Ryan yelped as he tumbled left. He regained his balance and pushed himself up. "What was that for?" he demanded, rubbing his leg where he'd hit the side of the boat.

His father, sitting on the rear seat, arm behind him to pilot the engine gave him a stern look. "You were getting tranced by the water. Another few minutes, and your would've fallen in."

"I would've done no such thing!" Ryan protested. In his heart though, he knew his father was right.

* * *

The wide waterway had given way to risen swamp. Large trees, cypress, rose out of the water, draped in moss. Here and there, a copse of ferns managed to find enough land to make a stab at survival. The exposed mud-bars filled the air with the scent of sulfur and fish. Beyond that though, there was an oddly sweet smell. Something floral. Some blooms Ryan couldn't see.

"This was old plantation land," Waylon explained as he shut down the engine and raised it. "There are too many weeds, the water's too shallow. We'll be poling from here." He handed an oar over to Ryan, handle first. "Use that end," he instructed, demonstrating.

Waylon stood up and pushed the pole into the water. "Be careful," he admonished.

Be careful of what? Ryan thought. He got to his feet, surprised by how stable the little johnboat was, and pushed the oar into the water. When it connected with the bottom, he felt the ground resist it. A flotilla of bubbles rose to the surface, breaking open with a rotten egg smell. He made a face. Swamp gas. That explained the sulfur smell.

Ryan lifted his pole, nearly hitting Waylon as he reached forward.

"Careful!" Waylon snapped as he ducked.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?"

Waylon sighed. "How about I just pole for a while? It'll be just as easy, and I know where we're going."

Ryan looked around. To him, the swamp all looked the same. "How?" he asked.

Waylon gestured with his chin at the trees around them. "This all used to be open fields. Sugarcane. Those trees there, to the right? Remnants of old magnolia, or live oak… or something. They like dry land. Once we get a bit closer, we'll be able to take the road."

"Road?"

Waylon nodded. "The avenue to Belledouleur is all cobblestone. We've been running more or less parallel to it. Belledouleur was built on a slight rise. This isn't so much swamp as a wide spot in the river. Probably from all the rain recently. If it were dryer, we could've probably taken the road by now."

Ryan sat down, looking through the shadows under the massive trees and hanging moss. "Why can't we just cut through, if that side's high-land. Why not just hike in?"

"Have you ever tried hiking through a swamp?"

Ryan shook his head.

"One false step, and you're up to your neck in a sump hole, or quicksand. It's fastest and safest in the boat."

Ryan couldn't think of anything further to say at that point. He leaned his knees on his elbows and watched the swamp grow darker. As they neared the higher ground, he'd expected it would get lighter. If anything, the canopy overhead grew thicker, the air heavier and more oppressive. He swatted at a mosquito, and listened to the heady drone of insects in the leaves.

Off to his right, a shadow detached itself from beside a wide cypress root. A pair of gold eyes, watched him through vertical pupils: narrow slits like a cat's. A pair of nostrils broke the water, then sunk back under.

Ryan shifted nervously to face Waylon. "Dad…" he began, pointing towards the eyes.

"Alligator," Waylon replied. "I see it."

Ryan turned back, nervously scanning the water for the eyes. The popped up, closer to the boat this time. Ryan could see the muddy water churning behind as the animal's powerful tail propelled it towards them with a deceptively lazy motion. It was almost as long as the boat. Ryan looked about for something to use as a weapon. All he had was the oar that would hardly-

 _BANG_

The deafening crack of a handgun split the air. Ryan didn't even have time to cover his ears. His hands went to his chest in shock. _I've been shot!_ His brain screamed.

The water a few inches from the gator's head erupted as a bullet whizzed into it.

The gator's eyes rolled in the direction of the disturbance, then up to the boat. With a quick tilt of the head, the animal turned and sunk underwater, heading off in search of safer prey.

Ryan clutched his chest with one hand, the seat with another. It took him a second to realize he was still holding his breath. Barely able to hear anything over his own heartbeat and the ringing in his ears he turned mutely around.

His father, Waylon, was standing there, a revolver held with a steady hand; following the direction of the alligator. After a moment, Waylon relaxed, lowered the hammer, and slipped the revolver into a concealed shoulder harness under his blazer.

Ryan realized his mouth was hanging open.

"You have a gun? How long have you been carrying gun on you!?"

Waylon straightened his blazer and buttoned it up. "Since we left Burns Manor."

"Wha? Why? What sort of trouble did you think we'd get into?"

The grey-haired man shrugged casually. "I wasn't sure, but I wasn't willing to find out."

"But you're been packing heat!"

"I have a national concealed-carry permit. It's all perfectly legal."

Ryan thought of the crime in Philadelphia. Armed robberies, shootings. He'd never felt comfortable around guns. The idea of his father wearing one made him nervous. He rubbed his aching ears. "Do you always carry a gun?"

Waylon poled the boat onward. "Oh no," he shook his head. "Hardly ever. Not unless theres a good need, or someone I want to protect."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Hubby's not even here right now."

Waylon coughed and glared at Ryan. "He's not the only one I care about." He jabbed the pole into the water more forcefully than he needed to, and the boat rocked slightly. When he pulled it free, the bottom was covered in grey mud.

 _Oh…_ Ryan gestured to himself.

Waylon nodded. "You're my son, and I'm not going to risk anything happened to you. A lot can happen in several thousand miles. I'm not going to let it happen to you."

Ryan pivoted on the seat so that he faced Waylon. "You care about me," he said, wonderingly. It was new information, and a rather large piece. He knew it would take some time to digest. "Why?

Waylon gave him the most incredulous expression. "Because you're my son! Why wouldn't I care about you?"

Ryan muttered something softly to himself, and looked at his hands.

"Excuse me?"

Ryan looked up. "I said 'because you just met me… and I haven't exactly been the nicest to you.'"

Waylon pushed the boat further. "You're going through a lot. It takes time to adjust to it all. For both of us."

"Yeah… both of us." Ryan's voice trailed off. He looked into the branches of the trees. The leaves were really blowing. Wait, scratch that. The air was still. What were those things swinging from the branches? Ryan squinted through the clearing mists. It looked like dead animals swinging from nooses… or tiny bodies.

"Dad… Waylon… are you seeing those?"

* * *

Waylon Smithers grunted, digging the pole into the ground. Though water still covered everything, it had grown to shallow for him to push the boat further. After a moment of wrestling the oar out of the water and muck, he looked up.

Hanging from the trees were dozens and dozens of human-like forms, ranging in size from a few inches to over a foot. They were made from all manner of materials, straw, leather… even some plastic store-bought figures.

"Doll babies," he observed, looking up at the swaying figures. He'd seen them before. The eyes in the swamp just beyond the sunken lawns of Belledouleur. There had been a good number then. Clearly, they'd only increased with time.

"Like voodoo dolls?" Ryan asked nervously.

"Hoodoo," Waylon corrected, "not voodoo."

Ryan flinched away from one that hung close to the boat.

"What are they all doing here? A curse?"

Waylon shook his head. "No. Protection."

"For who? Wainwright?"

Waylon set the oar down in the boat and slipped off his blazer. "No. For us. To protect us _from_ Wainwright." He folded his jacket neatly on the seat, and rolled up his sleeves. Waylon reached down and grabbed the bow rope. Without hesitation he jumped lightly out of the boat and into the shallow water with a splash.

Ryan gave a concerned yelp.

Waylon offered him a reassuring smile with a cheer he didn't feel. Time to put on a brave face, he told himself. "We're over the cobble avenue now. I'll have to tow the boat to shore." He grabbed the coarse rope in both hands and, mustering a courage he didn't know if he felt, he started forward, pulling johnboat, and Ryan, ever closer to the manor grounds of Belledouleur.


	13. Chapter 13

_**December 1st, 1889**_

 _Harlgrove has been poking his nose where it doesn't belong once again. By the Blood of Christ and tattered wings on all the Heavenly Host, I will not tolerate his intrusion. I will deal with Edmond's meddling one way or another. He will rue the day he ever sought to intrude upon my affairs._

 _I will be patient, and bide my time: the viper who strikes once, but for the kill. I'll yet teach him to stay away from Charles and the rest of my posessions._

 _\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. December 1st. 1886_


	14. Chapter 14

_**September 15th, 1891**_

 _Harlgrove has been mercifully absent these past long months. I do not miss his intrusions, that inane clotheshorse sauntering up the avenue to parley with me. Is it too soon to think I may have run him off for good? Charles asks about him from time to time, but even the boy seems to have let the matter drop. I could see the potential for comradery developing. I will not risk such potential entanglements, competition for Charles' attentions. I need all the lad's faculties focused on me._

 _I decided it was time to develop him further. I've been successful thus far, but I've yet to truly push the nature of his breeding. It became high time to see what he was indeed made of._

 _The years are creeping up to the four-year anniversary of Charles' arrival at Belledouleur, and I cannot begin to say how much he has changed. For the better, I might add. Gone is the sniveling little "Happy" whelp I first dragged into my life. In his place stands a lad, ten years in age; clever and delightfully reserved._

 _He's shown remarkable brilliance in his studies. He grasps all things his pedagog (a gentleman I hand-picked for the job) has presented: languages, arithmetic, science and history. I let his tutor handle the academics. I haven't the time to be bothered._

 _Instead, I focus on presenting other studies. More important materials._

 _On the eve of his tenth year, I took him upstairs, to the top level of Belledouleur, to my private workspace nestled between the gables, largely shut away from the light. He complained of the dark heat, daring even to describe it as "infernal," much to my amusement. I find it ideal. It allows me to think. My attic loft is different from my study on the second floor, the room from which I am writing now._

 _At the highest points in the house, I find the temperature restorative. As the sweat leaves my brow, my pores and mind open. I am able to devote myself freely and without interruption to my life's great work._

 _Though he was clearly overwhelmed by his body's initial calefaction. I could almost see his brain beginning to simmer in its juices. His eyes rolled in his head, and he staggered forward a step before catching himself on the edge of my desk. I allowed him this transgression without word. The sweat coursed his temples and jawline._

 _I sat back, fingers tented, curious to see if he would pass out. I confess I was eager to see which would happen. I waited._

 _After several long moments of swaying precariously, he rolled his shoulders forward, and with a display of surprising fortitude, straightened his back. He pulled his long hair back, away from his neck. I offered him a ribbon with which to tie his locks up._

 _"Father," he said, voice almost drugged, "how can you work like this?"_

 _I drummed the tips of my fingers together. "I find it soothing, conducive to thought. It also helps ensure that I shall be left undisturbed until I see fit to emerge."_

 _"And what do you do up here, Father?"_

 _"Dear Charles, pull up a chair. Allow me to divulge a secret." I leaned in, conspiratorially._

 _The boy leaned in as well._

 _"I'm sure by now you are well-versed in natural history of the world, the cycles of life, death, decay… but I assure you there is a great deal more than that. At the most simple, a man can shape the growth of a tree, manipulating the truck with wire and frame, trimming some branches, encouraging others. Why, some might say a skilled gardener can create a plant that is quite unnatural, yes?"_

 _He nodded._

 _I held up a finger. "Wrong. It is all quite natural, the bending of the world to the will of man. It is how all things are supposed to be. Was it not written 'fill the Earth and subdue it?'" I smiled as innocently as I could, worried the boy might catch a glimpse of the design behind my eyes. Would he, after all those years, recognize the line?_

 _Apparently, yes. He did._

 _"The Book of Genesis, from the Bible," he muttered. Then his face grew confused. "But Father, did you not say that was nothing more than a tale for the weak-minded? A book of fairy stories?"_

 _I laughed then, truly laughed. After regaining my composure, I gestured to my workbench. "Charles, my boy, I never said it was nothing more than a tale for the weak-minded. I said blindly following it was for the weak. 'Fill the Earth and subdue it.' Do you really think the weak are capable of such an act?" I gave a snort of derision. "No. That line applies to the strong. That line speaks to us. The weak are to be subdued, and we shall overcome. But herein lies the catch. You see, son, we were never meant to die. We were meant to live, immortal."_

 _"Adam and Eve."_

 _"Yes and no." I reached up and pulled book down from a shadowy perch. My personal Bible, worn and stained with the passing of too many years. I quickly flipped through the pages. "Adam lived for centuries. His son Seth did as well. And yet, by the time you reach the tales of Abraham and Moses, the lifespan of a man cannot even break two centuries. Why do you think that is?"_

 _Charles sat silent for a moment, his body unable to even sweat further. I offered him a sip of the dark twice-brewed salted tea I kept in a flask on my desk. It could restore the body, sharpen the mind. He drank it readily enough, despite the bitter taste. Two swallows, that was enough. I removed the flask from his hands and returned it to its place._

 _"Accumulation of sin?" he finally asked._

 _I could not suppress my mirth at his answer. Ah, so close, and yet so far._

 _"Boy, if that were the case, the so-called 'men of the Church' would still live forever. Their false God would give them greater life in thanks for their humble piety and servitude, would you not think?"_

 _He nodded, good._

 _"And yet," I continued, "that is clearly not the case."_

 _"Indeed, Father," he agreed, bobbing his head. Such a good lad he's become._

 _"No, what ultimately causes us this short life is nothing more than the product of human complacency. Mankind, as a species, is weak, unambitious. Unintelligent. We, as a society, have forgotten how to channel the powers we used to freely access. Names of the powerful and divine; all in exchange for some blind allegiance to some single false-prophet, the ultimate deceiver who sought steer focus away from the great divine, and focus it into a single 'church' of mankind: written by men, controlled by men, damned to weakness by men."_

 _The boy looked as if he were about to speak. I held up a hand, silencing him before a single word escaped. "What if I told you, boy, that the reason we have become so weak, so short-lived, is because we have forgotten how to channel the divine?"_

 _I could tell he was perplexed, and I was glad._

 _"Charles, have you ever heard of Beliyya'al? Abizithibod? Beelzeboul?"_

 _The boy shook his head._

 _"Of course you haven't. And why should you? For each time that man pens down the ancient texts, they grandly omit more and more." I tapped his head with the tip of my finger. "But I am not a weak man, and I daresay you are not either. Those names are but a fraction of all the divine figures dutifully omitted from the monotheistic religion of this age. They are demons, or angels if you will, that can be summoned and controlled, much like the servants of this house."_

 _I sat back, interlacing my fingers, and smiled at the boy._

 _Charles looked back at me, positively febrile with the heat, and ever-so open to suggestions. So delightfully pliable._

 _Admittedly I wasn't even aware at this point I had risen to my feet. But there I was, towering above Charles, fist clenched in defiance towards the ridgepole and sky. "Here, I have made it my life's work to transcend the limitations society might impose. Find merely the right words, the right sacrifices to offer, and a long-life can be deservedly had. I shall endure, I shall conquer senescence, and stand alone: the potent and nearly ageless. Autocrat of Mortrouge, ruling all from the sacred grounds of Belledouleur; year after year escaping the rot of the grave."_

 _I grinned down at him, lips drawn away from my teeth. "You, dear Charles, are my heir. You will reap the benefits of this association with me. At my side, I ask you to join in my studies, my research. I need a trusted apprentice, perhaps someday even a colleague. Tell me, Charles, are you willing to join me at my side: not merely in ruling Belledouleur, but in pursuit of my life's work?" I extended my hand._

 _He looked up, glazed and attuned, and fanatical all in one. "I will!" he said, grasping my outstretched hand in his. "Yes, yes!"_

 _His hand was so hot against mine. He'd nearly exceeded his body's tolerance for my lair. I rose, taking him firmly by the shoulder, forcing upon him another sip of the tea, then ushering him down the flight of stairs past plaster and lath to the finished hallway below. "There's a good lad," I soothed as I ordered the housewoman to fetch a cold washcloth for his brow._

 _I escorted the staggering boy to his chamber, and laid him down upon the bed. The servant arrived with the cool rags, and I sent her away. In this moment, I needed him myself to be his sole focus. I had pushed him, body and mind, farther than some might have found medically wise. He would be addled by heat and dehydration, pliable._

 _In these moments of false comfort that I intended to provide, he would regain his faculties, scare able to differentiate between real and imagined memories. One thing he would not be able to question though, was my attentive acts._

 _He would awaken to my pretense of doting care, never considering that I was the one who had deliberately endangered him an hour before. He would believe me concerned for his well-being, consider it truth, and be all the more loyal for it._

 _Ah, Charles, you are a delight to my machinations. You are everything I could've hoped for; a wonderful plaything in my hands. And, if all goes as I hope, you will continue follow in my footsteps so perfectly a man would scarcely be able to tell one from the other. You will be my legacy, my heir, and one of my greatest works. Charles, I am glad you are here. Happy Birthday, dear boy. This is my present to you._

 _\- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. September 15th, 1891_


	15. Chapter 15

Ryan Smithers watched as his father hauled the flat boat through the water grass and up onto the muddy banks of the cobblestone road. When the bow was over solid land, Waylon offered him a hand out. Ryan took it awkwardly, and hopped onto the flat stones. Together they hauled the boat the remaining several feet, till it was fully ashore.

Waylon sat down on a nearby stump and slipped off his loafers. He poured an unpleasant amount of muddy water from them before slipping them back on.

Ryan watched the process. "Your feet are wet."

"Wet feet are the least of my concerns right now," Waylon replied. He straightened up, and slid his blazer on. He buttoned it up, covering the shoulder holster and revolver he wore. After pausing to straighten his bowtie, he gestured down the avenue. "It's a straight walk from here."

The paved cobble road, nearly buried under the low-slung arms of some ancient oak trees lead up to the very door of Belledouleur House.

The swamp was oddly silent here. The familiar drone of insects Ryan had become accustomed to faded away. The air was still and oppressive. Not so much as the hint of a breeze. Ryan glanced around nervously, looking at the dolls that hung motionless from the trees. There were so many. He could barely move without ducking to avoid them. Several feet further though, the forest of hanging dolls ended, as if even they were afraid to venture nearer.

Ryan found the sudden end of their presence more disconcerting than having them there in the first place.

Waylon's voice answered his unspoken question. "And now, we've gone further than any of the locals will ever tread." Waylon gestured off to their left, along the property that met the swamp. There, jutting from the murky water like the last broken tooth from a diseased gum, jutted a massive broad stone. A marker for a grave.

"Wainwright's buried there," Waylon explained as they passed.

Ryan shuddered. The stone was remarkably free of moss, but marred by black streaks of lichens. Beyond Wainwright's name, the remaining words, the dates of his birth and death, had been eaten away by passing years.

"The river's come closer," Waylon noted. "Last time I was here, this was all dry land."

The water bowed in from the grave, coming nearly to the cobbles on which they walked.

"How much further?" Ryan asked.

"You can see it from here."

Ryan didn't have to ask what "it" was.

The manor was barely visible through the leaves and vines that surrounded it. Ryan could just make out the massive form, a darker shadow in the swamp. If he hadn't been looking, Ryan might've mistaken it for a trick of the light. Now that he knew what he saw, the outline took shape. As they approached, the trees beside the lane fell away, exposing an oddly open expanse before the house. Aside from the water that curled against the side lawn, the house seemed oddly exposed, as if the swamp itself wanted nothing to do with the place.

Though the once expansive grass lawns had been overgrown with grass and reeds. Ryan could still see the difference in the land. He could tell what must've been maintained gardens, and what was once cropland. The ground sloped down towards the field, contrasting with the slight rise towards the house.

Belledouleur itself sat buried in age and time. Once it had been painted, but the paint had faded to a moldy grey, then fallen away as flakes of the plaster fronting crumbled. A two story building, the plantation house claimed the ruined land, refusing even now to yield to time.

The front porch of the house was supported by four massive roman pillars reaching from the floor of the entry to the top of the second floor. Several gabled windows were spaced along the attic roof. Two double-story wings extended on both sides from the main body of the house.

Undeterred, Waylon strode forward, up the wide steps and on to the creaking porch. The smell of wet wood and mildew filled Ryan's nostrils. He rubbed his face, and shrank closer to Waylon's side, hoping his father wouldn't notice. Waylon paused, looking down at the porch. He dropped to his knees, and ran a finger over the wood. After a moment he rose, and examined the tarnished knobs of the double front door.

"He's been here," Waylon muttered, wiping his hands on his already dirty pants. "I don't know if he's still here, but he was here at one point."

"Wainwright?" This place seemed a true haunted house if ever there was one. The words left Ryan's mouth before he realized how ridiculous they sounded. Wainwright was clearly dead. The only person Waylon could possibly be talking about was Montgomery Burns. He felt a flush of embarrassment.

Waylon, fortunately, didn't seem to hear him. He was lost in thought, hand hovering above the doorknob, as if listening to something.

* * *

Waylon Smithers found himself frozen. His mind replayed memories of his and Burns' relationship over the years. He saw the man's face, images of him in sickness… and in health. His imagination saw fit to match each memory with a hope, dream, or fear.

Whatever lay beyond this door, he had a feeling it would change everything.

He realized he'd become intimately aware of every detail around him. He felt the slight give in the boards of the porch as Ryan shifted his weight. Waylon heard a few insects, and the notable lack of birdsong. He could smell the wet wood, the sulfur and moss of the swamp; he felt the still air almost heavy against his shoulders. There was another smell to the air: something evocative, like ozone.

This was the moment, Waylon decided: the calm before the storm. Whatever happened next, it would be quick, shocking, and possibly brutal.

He felt the familiar pressure of the revolver against his ribs; heard Ryan give a slight cough.

"Are we going?" Ryan asked, interrupting the moment.

Waylon looked up into the darkening sky. The mist had not burned off, and clouds were rolling in. He hung his head, and lowered his hand to the knob. "Yes, Ryan," he replied, steeling his nerves for the worst. "We are."

Waylon twisted the knob in his hand, and shoved.

The door swung open easily, hardly offering the resistance he'd been expecting. He'd used too much force. The knob slipped from his hand and the door banged loudly against the inside wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the empty halls. Waylon steadied the door and looked back at Ryan. He offered a weak and apologetic shrug to his son.

"If he's here, he now he knows we are too."

Ryan tried to grin, to put on a brave face. The effect yielded only a grimace beneath frightened hazel eyes.

* * *

The grand entry hall of Belledouleur was mostly empty. Directly across from the front door was a fireplace, framed by two doors that lead into the back portion of the house. A staircase curved up along the left wall, wrapping over the fireplace, and extending above the right side of the room to the second floor. The ceiling was high, easily ten feet, and supported by a pair of roman pillars that held the weight of the second floor landing.

On either side, two massive entryways with doors that slid into the walls were open. The left opened into what appeared to be an old ball- or music-room. A stained and off-kilter grand piano lurked in the shadows. The ceiling was equally high, and an ornate fireplace filled the far wall. There was a second door off that room, a single door, but it was closed.

To the right, was apparently a library, and beyond that maybe a dining room. Without much furniture, it was hard to tell. The only light came from the dirty windows, covered by lace curtains that once must've been beautiful, but were now covered in dust and cobwebs.

A few moldy couches, fabric rotted as fragile as crepe paper sit in the hollow rooms. The floor was covered with dead leaves, and what appeared to be sheets of paper.

Waylon stooped down and picked one up. It tore in his hand. He could barely make out the tight handwriting, not Monty's, covering the blackened page. It was a page out of a journal.

Ryan made a gagging sound, and kicked a dead mouse into a corner. He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest. His eyes said it all. He wanted to leave, but he didn't want to go alone.

 _I'll stay here with you_ , his face said, but I don't like it here.

Waylon felt the same way.

Across the floor were signs of recent traffic. The leaves had been crushed to powder between the entryway and staircase, indicating someone had made this trip often. The doorway to the rear of the house was devoid of cobwebs, which suggested recent use. Waylon knotted his fingers through his short hair and tried to remember the details of his last trip.

Burns had been aloof and focused, not hesitating as he headed towards the stairs. He'd instructed Waylon to stay below. Waylon closed his eyes, and tried to envision what he would do if he were Monty Burns.

"He's upstairs," Waylon said. "There's nothing down here for him."

Ryan looked forlornly at the stairs. "Will the floor even hold us?"

Waylon put his foot on the wide bottom step and leaned forward, pushing down.

The stair creaked, but felt solid enough.

He took a second step, and gave a slight hop.

Another creak, this one louder, but that was it.

"I'm fairly certain," he replied. He started up, then paused, feeling eyes on the back of his head. He turned and looked back. Ryan was standing in the center of the room, hugging himself, looking miserable.

"I don't want to go up there," he whispered.

Waylon turned, and made his way down. He reached out, and drew Ryan against him. "I don't either. But I promise you, Ryan, nothing bad will happen to you. I won't let it. I promise!"

Ryan didn't resist Waylon's arms. Instead, he leaned into them. Waylon held the boy's shoulders firmly, reassuringly. After a minute, Ryan leaned back.

"Are you going to be okay?" Waylon asked.

Ryan exhaled and rolled his eyes up to the second landing. "I guess we do this now, huh Waylon."

"It's what we came here to do," Waylon replied. Hand still on Ryan's shoulders, they ascended the stairs together.

* * *

The second floor was equally hollow as the one they'd just left. Two hallways stretched out over the wings, with open doorways into empty chambers. Arbitrarily, Waylon chose to turn right. When he hit the end of the hall, he found himself in a room. It must've been a child's room once upon a time.

Various wooden toys sat on shelves, a black-streaked red cap hung on a hat-rack. There was a microscope, and a telescope; several books on chemistry on the shelf above the bed. A writing desk in the far corner. It took Waylon a moment to realize what he was looking at.

He was standing in the childhood room of his long-time friend and partner: Charles Montgomery Burns.

The room itself appeared untouched. Spider webs hung, sagging from the weight of the dust that had accumulated on them. Waylon regarded the room with new eyes. Here, a tin-type photograph of young Charles and Wainwright downstairs. There, a painting of Wainwright and a massive, shaggy wolfhound at his side. There was an odd aura to the room: despite that it had been a child's room, it felt as if the contents had never witnessed _childhood_. As if young Monty had kept everything there, museum-like. The only things that showed true evidence of use were the books, chemistry vials, and 'scopes. There was a sadness to the place, despite the toys on the shelves. Innocence lost, that could never be regained.

Waylon felt fingers of melancholy slide around his heart. He hung his head. He thought of his own childhood, but it was nothing compared to this. At least his room always felt like a home.

This room, it was a mockery of such things.

Waylon couldn't bear to look at it any further. Grabbing Ryan by the arm, he guided the black haired youth with him, past the stairs, down to the opposite wing.

Above the library was a room that must've been Wainwright's personal suite. A study attached to the master bedchamber, a fireplace at the corner, and a massive desk by the window. In the study, on the desk a book lay open, pages grey-green with mildew.

Waylon reached towards it, then drew his hand back. He had no idea what it was. A journal perhaps? And what if Monty still wanted it? This room, Wainwright's private chamber, was oddly austere. He would've expected a level of grandeur similar to that which Monty surrounded himself with back at the manor. Or, possibly, something dark and evil.

It was neither. Oddly light and airy, even after all these years. Simple, wholesome. The sort of room one could almost feel safe in.

Waylon shuddered. That was, perhaps, most unnerving of all.

He made to leave, when a sheet of paper poking out of a drawer caught his attention. It wasn't the paper, exactly, it was the writing on it.

Waylon could recognize Monty Burns' neat handwriting anywhere. Though the paper was ancient, it seemed to have fared better than most the other relics. Every so gingerly, Waylon slid the drawer open, and lifted the letter (for that it what it was) onto the desk.

 _My Dear Father,_

 _I cannot express my gratitude at your munificence. Yale, then Oxford for the pursuit of chemistry and science? This opportunity clearly sets me above my peers._

 _At the same time, Father, there are some questions I might yet ask? My old friend Lawrence: what has become of him? I know from your letter that his father, Edmond Harlgrove has neither been seen nor heard from in well over several months. Why is it, Father, I am led to believe you had a hand in it?_

 _Are the rumors true what's been said? Old Wildfell making sport of cracking a human femur as he lay beside you at the banquet? I cannot believe that. For even if you had taken such an urge to dispose of Edmond, I doubt you would've been so meretricious in your actions afterward._

 _I do remember what you said about Lawrence, and about me. That, as a Burns it is my birthright to go where I wish, do what I wish, and take whom I wish. Did such liasons leave him as ruined as you'd hoped? Herein my confession, it was never my design to ruin anybody, least of all a man who had done me no harm. A man whose company I enjoyed. Your quarrel with Edmond was never mine, and as I grow older, I refuse to let it become my concern._

 _Europe is, of course, everything I had hoped._

 _In addition to my studies, I have news of a more personal sort. I have met the woman I intend to marry: a young woman of complemental pedigree to my own. I met her in France on holiday. Her name is Lyla._

 _I shall not ask for your blessings in this matter, Father, for I know you would have none to give. Rest assured though, that she shall do the family name proud._

 _Yours, lovingly and sincerely,_

 _\- Charles_

There was a second letter in the drawer, unopened, and dated after the first.

Waylon didn't hesitate. He lifted a letter opener off the desk, and split the wax seal. He held it in his hands, first to read the words penned so long ago.

 _My Dear Father,_

 _Ought those words be honorable, or ironic? Verily I am not sure._

 _You've not responded in regards to Lyla. I fear I have your answer._

 _Regardless, that is irrelevant. You see, 'father,' I have done it! I have succeeded where you have failed! In all your laudanum induced fervors, your adherence to ancient gobbledegook and arcane falsities, I have indulged in science, and found my own way to long life! I would share this technique with you, but alas I fear you've taught me too well. I think I shall keep this little gem to myself. Rest assured you will never get it from me. Perhaps, just maybe, I might share it on your deathbed, but don't expect me to._

 _I will be returning to Belledouleur on the next Atlantic crossing._

 _Through it all, I confess a portion of my heart still looks forward to seeing you again, even now. Perhaps I am not as perfect a specimen as you envisioned me to be. Or, perhaps, I am merely a creature of my own design._

 _Lyla has accepted my proposal, and we are due to be wed when I return to Europe after my sojourn in America._

 _Herein I have another confession, father. I do no longer go by the name which you bestowed upon me. That 'Charles' is my name, I cannot deny, but I feel, in lieu of my own discoveries and advances, it only fitting to take a new appellation. I have taken to being known as Monty, a nickname first shared only with myself, then eventually with Lyla as well._

 _She says, I might add, that it fits me far better than 'Charles' ever did._

 _You may address me, grandfather, as 'C. Montgomery Burns,' and I shan't respond to anything less than Monty. You have raised me too well, I fear: too strong, and too easily bold. I will not bend to anyone's will again, and that includes yours._

 _I appreciate all you've shown me._

 _Your 'au fait' grandson,_

 _\- Monty_

* * *

Waylon held the letter in his hands, reading it again to be sure he hadn't missed anything. He was about to say something when he felt Ryan's hand on his arm.

"Dad," he whispered, pointing down the hall, "there's someone on the landing above…"


	16. Chapter 16

Waylon Smithers followed his son's pointing hand. There, at the bend in the stair, a white figured hunched, watching them. In the shadows, Waylon could barely make out details.

"Monty?" he called out, tucking the brittle letters into his blazer. "Is that you?"

The figure turned, silently, and ascended the stairs.

Ryan at his heel, he hurried into the main hall and thrust himself over the railing, craning his neck towards the floor above. He saw nothing, no one. "Come on, Ryan," he urged, reaching out for his son's arm. He half-led, half-dragged Ryan forward. The boy hesitated, but ultimately did not resist.

Waylon bounded up the stairs, two at a time, coming to a halt just outside a final door at the top of the flight. Without pause, Waylon pushed it open. He was immediately hit with a blast of warm, stale air. Reeling slightly from the sensation, he stepped into a long, vaulted attic that ran the length of the house. The only light came from several gables, but the windows had been covered with heavy cloth.

The room appeared to be set up like a work-shop or primitive laboratory with an emphasis on the supernatural, rather than the scientific. Several bird skulls hung like a grotesque mobile, dangling in one of the window wells.

Lines of chalk and smeared white powder covered the floor, and pinned to the support posts were various sigils Waylon couldn't begin to identify.

Despite the sighting of someone on the stairs, the attic appeared devoid of life other than their own. A long, high bench, covered with glassware and condensing coils, was built into the side wall. Several books lay in a haphazard stack at one end, as if they'd been thrown there.

Ryan detached himself from Waylon's grasp. He approached the bench, head tilted to the side, reaching for one of the books. Ryan's attention was solely on the desk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Waylon saw motion.

A wraithlike shape detached itself from the space between two beams, and descend noiselessly on his son.

Waylon barely had time to cry out "Ryan!," before the boy was grabbed bodily by his shoulders and pulled into the dark.

 _No, no, no!_ Waylon muttered to himself, springing into action. He galloped around a dark, concealed corner by the desk. Beyond lay a small room, a second attic over the rear portion of the house.

Waylon skidded to a halt.

In the dim light from the rows of dormer windows, he could make out the form of Charles Montgomery Burns.

* * *

Burns stood, motionless, in the center of the room. He held Ryan silently by the chin, looking at the boy as one might study a particularly fine racehorse. He turned Ryan's head this way and that, examining his face from all angles.

"Monty?"

Burns completely ignored Waylon.

"Yes," he hissed, examining Ryan. "You're the spiriting image of him. The mouth's a bit wrong, and the face is too young, but those eyes… yes…"

Ryan tried to pull his head back, but Burns tightened his clawlike grasp.

"Monty!" Waylon barked out.

Burns shook his head. "No one here by that name, my fellow. Why don't you run along now, go back from whence you came."

"I'm not leaving without you."

Burns gave Ryan an annoyed shake, and turned to face Waylon square on. "Dammit, man. What could I possibly want with you?"

Waylon realized Burns was dressed in the white southern finery of the previous century. His right hand rested on the head of a long cane; the same cane Waylon had seen Wainwright holding in the pictures. Waylon felt beads of sweat start to condense on his brow. Whether it was from nerves or the stifling heat, he wasn't sure.

Burns approached him slowly. "Ah, by the blood of my fathers, I do recognize you. You're Waylon Smithers' boy. What was the child's name? Waylon himself was it? You've grown up to be quite the strapping fellow, I see."

Waylon took a step forward, but Burns held up the foot of the cane, blocking him.

"That's far enough, Waylon Junior. Yes… it's been too many days here, but I'm remembering you now. We had a comradery of sorts, very peculiar. Not entirely unlike some of the ones I've shared before… and yet completely unlike any of them in the same vein. Well, Waylon Junior, what do you want?"

Waylon gestured around him. "This place, Monty. It's not good for your head. here's some evil or deviltry at work. I came to bring you home."

Burns' lips drew back in a predatory smile. He leaned both hands over the head of his cane and Waylon noticed his fingernails had been chewed ragged. "Home? My dear fellow, I think you're sadly mistaken." He moved away from Waylon, closer towards Ryan. "I _am_ home."

"Wainwright…" Ryan muttered, trying to put distance between him and Burns.

The old man's face contorted at the name.

Burns turned on Ryan with a sudden savagery. "How dare you utter than name in my presence, fiend? You, of all creatures, who sees fit to torment me from beyond the grave with your hollow mockery? Ah, it's a good attempt to be sure… but not good enough."

Ryan backed up, raising his hands. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Burns followed, matching him step for step. "Oh, don't you though? The first time I saw your eyes, I thought no, it must be a trick of the light. But no. When I returned to Springfield, I took great pains to study all images thereof. Those are the same eyes, and there is no way that's possible."

Ryan's back was pressed against the wall. There was nowhere for him to retreat.

"What's he talking about?" Ryan asked over to his father, a note of panic in his voice.

Waylon's hands were at the buttons of his blazer, unfastening them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Burns cut him off.

"Those eyes belong to one Waylon Smithers Senior. A man who I knew well too long ago, a man who sacrificed his life so that the city as his loved ones might survive. That ageless look in them, wise beyond their years? The same as you hold now? You have no right to those eyes, and I can't bear it when you look at me."

Burns clasped his hands around the head of his cane. "Even now, you're killing me!"

With a sudden motion, Burns grasped the cane in both hands. With a twisting motion he pulled out a long, silver blade of a sword, and held the tip just under Ryan's chin.

"Monty, no!"

Waylon had unbuttoned his blazer, and stood, hand hovering above his revolver. "Please, don't," he begged. "Put the sword down."

"You care for this imposter do you?" Burns sneered, holding the sword perfectly still.

"That's no imposter, Monty. Nor is he a ghost. That's Ryan… my son."

* * *

 _Son? It can't be._ The sword started to feel heavy in Monty's grasp. He felt his resolve weakening. The blade tip lowered, but only for a second.

"No. I won't believe it…"

* * *

Ryan stood there, eyes flitting between his father and the man before him. He looked into Montgomery eyes, eyes that seemed strangely familiar, but with the blue almost swallowed by his dilated pupils. The man was mad, or suffering.

Suffering, Ryan thought. That's not madness, that's pain. In a single moment, Ryan's terror was replaced by an odd calm, and even (dare he believe it) sympathy _. I have gazed into the abyss, and the abyss has gazed into me_. Ryan reached up, gently laying his fingers across the side of the blade. The steel was cool to his touch.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words that he spoke hardly felt like his own. It was as if someone were speaking through him. The voice that spoke was deep, wise. "He who fights with monsters, dear Monty, should see to it that in the process he himself does not become a monster."

Burns froze, jaw dropping slightly. "What… what did you say?"

"You know that quote." Ryan closed his eyes:

 _"Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

 _Looms but the Horror of the shade_

 _and yet the menace of the years_

 _Finds and shall find me unafraid._

Ryan opened his hazel eyes, expression tranquil. "You won't hurt me, Monty."

Burns' hand was trembling. The sword tip jiggled perilously close to Ryan's arteries.

Ryan reached up, softly sandwiching the blade between his palms, and held it still.

 _It matters not how straight the gate_

 _How charged with punishments the scroll_

Ryan gently guided the tip of the blade down, away from his neck and chest.

Burns met his eyes, and uttered the final two lines.

 _I am the master of my fate,_

 _I am the captain of my soul._

"Invictus," Burns said quietly, after a moment's pause. "One of the only poems we could ever agree upon." The sword clattered to the ground, as Burns stumbled forward.

Ryan caught him by the shoulders, and held him still. "It's one of my favorite poems too," he whispered.

Burns looked away, but Ryan could imagine he saw a faint hint of a smile on the old man's gaunt face.

* * *

Waylon stood, hand hovering above his gun, watching the scene unfold before him. He couldn't make out all the words. It was as if the everything were happening in slow motion. Burns, speaking to Ryan; Ryan replying delicately.

As Ryan guided the sword away, Waylon's hand relaxed and lowered.

What had he intended to do, anyhow? Shoot either one of them? He couldn't have. Two men that he loved, both in completely different ways. He closed his eyes and gave a brief prayer to God, thankful for the choice he hadn't needed to make.

Whatever spell that had possessed Monty Burns these past long days seemed well and truly broken. He rebuttoned his blazer, and stepped forward. He took Ryan by the shoulder, pulled his son against his chest, then reached out an arm for Monty Burns.

The old man hesitated a moment.

"Waylon," he said, expression pensive, "it's true this, what your mother always said: I am nothing but a monster."

"No, Monty," Waylon replied, not lowering his hand. "You are but a man."

"I came back from Europe, you know," Burns began, looking around the attic. "To Belledouleur. I'd sent my grandfather a letter. He never replied. I felt his a reticence an expression of disapproval. A deliberate act of provocation." He guided Waylon and Ryan into the main part of the attic.

They followed, dutifully.

"How could I have known it was no such thing?" Burns' voice had taken a keening edge to it. He gestured to the long desk and an empty chair. "When I returned, I found his fields managed in much the way they'd always been, the sharecroppers tending to the labor and harvest, carrying on in their own affairs. Of course they were loath to see me, and fled my presence as soon as I rode down the avenue, but I digress."

Burns turned towards Waylon. "Do you know what I found here?"

Waylon shook his head.

"My grandfather, or Father if you are so inclined. Lifeless at his work bench." Burns laid a hand on the chair. "He'd clearly been dead for some time. His skin was dry, taut. Stretched hard as old leather. Every last drop of moisture in his body broiled away in the attic heat."

Burns hung his head. "I took him out. By hand, I dug his grave. I labored from sun up to sun down, before finally laying him to rest under the stone you see there, by the entrance. No one assisted, no one dared offer. In all that, the sum total of his life reduced to a mummified corpse and a young man who suddenly found himself without a family or a home. Knowing nothing else, I left Belledouleur, and returned to Europe. I never intended to come back to the states." He traced his fingers over the brittle velvet. "Life has a way of disregarding plans of mankind."

Waylon reached for Burns' hand, but it was Ryan, of all people, who grasped the old man's fingers.

"I know how that feels," Ryan replied, giving Burns' hand a squeeze.

Burns, surprisingly, didn't pull his hand away.

"It hurts finding yourself alone."

"Why are you being sympathetic to me, boy?"

Ryan shrugged. "It just seems like the right thing to do." He tilted his head towards the roof. "What is that sound?" he asked. Above them came a faint patter, as if hundreds of tiny animals were running about above them.

"Rain," replied Waylon, glancing out the window. "It looks like that storm's finally arrived."

As if in reply the house gave a great shudder, nearly knocking them off their feet.

Burns gestured to the lands behind the house. "The river's swallowed everything back there, oxbowed in, and undercut the foundations. The basement's gone, flooded out. The stones are sinking."

"… And the water's rising," added Ryan. He glanced about, once again regarding them with the eyes of a young boy.

Waylon put his hands on Burns' and Ryan respectively. "We should go now." He guided them both towards the stairs.

"What about Belledouleur?" Ryan asked as they descended the stairs and made their way to the front door.

As if in response, the house gave a shuddering groan, interspaced with a bone-splitting snap.

Burns glanced towards the back of the house, at the deep crack that had just appeared through the fireplace behind them. "It doesn't matter now," he replied hollowly as the building shifted. Bolts of lightning stabbed through the sky, followed by the echo of thunder. "This place will tear itself apart around us if we don't go. Let devil and swamp take it all."


	17. Chapter 17

Ryan Smithers settled himself into his position at the bow of the boat, huddled as tight as he could against the driving rain. Burns had wrapped himself in the oiled boat tarp. After a time, he beckoned Ryan to his side. "There's enough room to sit, if you're so inclined."

Ryan gratefully slipped under the waterproof cover. Though he was already soaked, at least it kept the stinging rain away.

Waylon, on the other hand, appeared completely indifferent to the weather. He sat at the stern, guiding the boat deftly between the looking cypress trees and hanging moss. Periodically he wiped the water from his glasses with his free hand.

The tarp offered more warmth than Ryan had been expecting. Perhaps it was a sense of relief, or maybe he was just tired, but as he sat beside Burns, he felt oddly content. The man had just held him at sword-point an hour ago, and yet here they were, huddled together against the rain.

It makes no sense, Ryan thought to himself.

"No one ever said it had to make sense," Burns replied, as if reading his thoughts.

"I watched my mother die," Ryan remarked, staring through the sheets of rain.

"Of what?" Burns asked cautiously.

"Cancer," Ryan replied. "It was quick. I guess that's a blessing. But it doesn't feel like one."  
"They never do," Burns replied, eyes distant.

For the remainder of the ride, they sat silently.

The storm had mostly let up by the time Waylon piloted the boat back to Alphonse's docks. He hoped out, and started wrapping the ropes around the cleats. He'd barely made more than a few passes when Alphonse emerged from his shop, expression surprised.

"C'est vrai!" he exclaimed. _"You made it back alive, and found your missing man no less. What of Belledouleur?_ " he added, crossing himself and looking upstream.

"Sinking into the river as we speak," Waylon replied, offering a hand to Burns.

" _Good, good_ ," replied Alphonse as Burns and Ryan climbed out of the boat. " _We're all the better for it_." He turned to Waylon. " _And I believe, sir, I owe you something_."

"What's that?" Waylon asked, perplexed.

Alphonse extended his right arm. " _A handshake, my good man. Welcome back from the dead_."

Waylon wrinkled his brow. "An choice of words."

Alphonse shrugged. " _Not from here, it's not_."

"Fair enough."

The two men shook hands, then Alphonse turned on his heel, and made his way crisply back to his shop. Waylon unlocked the Durango, and pulled out several towels.

"We don't want you catching a cold, Monty," he fretted as he draped a towel around Burns' shoulders.

"Bah, quit your worrying, Smithers. I'm as fit a specimen as ever I was." There was a familiar edge to his voice, a sharpness Waylon knew all too well. It meant Burns cared, and was grateful for the kindness, but too proud to show it.

Waylon chuckled. "Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it back then."

Burns shook his head. "No, no. It's already wet, it will mildew in your travel bag. I suppose I am forced to endure its presence a bit longer." He pulled the towel closer around him and gave Waylon a stern look.

Ryan watched it all, quietly.

* * *

Waylon had the jet sent back to Springfield, and settled into the position as driver. Without the sense of impending danger, the trip took on a more leisurely pace. At some point, during the second day, Ryan crawled into the back seat beside Burns. "So…" he began, as he sized up his father's husband.

Burns turned his clear eyes to Ryan. "Yes, boy?"

Ryan extended a hand. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Ryan Hall Smithers." He gestured to Waylon in the driver's seat. "That's my dad."

"Yes, I gathered that."

It took Ryan a moment to get comfortable. Burns was sitting more or less in the middle of the seat, and Ryan didn't want to crowd him. After several minutes of shifting this way and that, he could a position that worked. "So… your my dad's husband…"

"And your point is?" Burns asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I think you said something about 'Waylon Smithers Senior, back… there." Ryan couldn't bring himself to say the name of the plantation.

Burns shrugged. "I might have. But again, boy, what of it? Those moments there, they passed as a blur."

Ryan struggled to suppress a smile, and failed. His eyes twinkled mirthfully. "You said you and my grandfather liked poetry."

Burns gave a snort. "I liked poetry, Ryan. He liked some sort of loose ramble-babble foolery with no sense of measure or footing. Not even a hint of rhyme! As if you can call it a poem when it doesn't rhyme." Burns folded his arms across his chest.

Ryan glanced at the clouds through the transparent sun-roof of the Durango. "No? What about this one? It's one of my favorites." He tilted his head back and recited:

 _One day you finally knew_

 _what you had to do, and began,_

 _though the voices around you_

 _kept shouting_

 _their bad advice –_

 _though the whole house began to tremble_

 _and you felt the old tug at your ankles._

 _"Mend my life!"_

 _each voice cried._

 _But you didn't stop._

 _You knew what you had to do,_

 _though the wind pried_

 _with its stiff fingers_

 _at the very foundations,_

 _though their melancholy_

 _was terrible._

 _It was already late_

 _enough, and a wild night,_

 _and the road full of fallen_

 _branches and stones._

 _But little by little,_

 _as you left their voices behind,_

 _the stars began to burn_

 _through the sheets of clouds,_

 _and there was a new voice_

 _which you slowly_

 _recognized as your own,_

 _that kept you company_

 _as you strode deeper and deeper_

 _into the world,_

 _determined to do_

 _the only thing you could do-_

 _determined to save_

 _the only life you could save._

Ryan finished, and looked at Burns, feeling very proud of himself for remembering the whole piece. A poem titled "The Journey," by Mary Oliver.

Burns regarded him thoughtfully, and interlaced his fingers under his chin. "Yes, Ryan. That's the sort of poem that would've been a favorite of your grandfather as well. And perhaps one that, given time, I could even come to appreciate."

The young man leaned back in the seat, and folded his hands across his chest, very much satisfied. Ryan smiled, and watched the sky, lost in his own imaginings. He sat like this for some time, until finally he was shaken from his reflection by Burns grumbling something, and forcing himself between the front seats.

"Dammit, Smithers, we missed our turn!" He gestured over his shoulder at an exit ramp heading north. "Springfield is that way!"

Waylon gave a sly smile. "I'm aware of that, Monty, but I hear California is beautiful this time of year."

Ryan's ears perked up. "California?" he asked, wedging himself in between Burns and his father, oblivious to the older man's protests.

Waylon offered an innocent shrug, as much as he safely could from behind the wheel. "Have you been paying attention to where we are, Ryan?"

The boy shook his head.

"Well," explained Waylon, "We're in the panhandle of Texas, we're heading west. You honestly can't tell me this doesn't look familiar…"

Ryan's eyes lit up. He could barely get his words out.

"Are we…? No, we can't be. We are, aren't we?"

"On Route 66?" offered Waylon. "As a matter of fact, we are. And, I don't know about you two," he added, glancing at Ryan and Burns in the rearview mirror, "but since everything in Springfield's gotten along just fine without us for this long, it can wait a little longer; don't you?"

Ryan hurled himself into the front belt. "Santa Monica, here we come!" He bounced up and down. "Really? Really? We're doing this?"

Waylon glanced back at Burns, who said nothing; but didn't protest.

"That's about as much of a unanimous vote as we're apt to get," Waylon laughed. "So yes, Ryan, Santa Monica it is. But don't talk about jumping off any piers or anything, okay? I've already had to drive across the country for one person in this family. I'd hate to have to swim across the ocean, though lord knows I'd do that too."

Ryan gave a happy yip, and threw his arms around Waylon's neck in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

"Hey, whoa, careful there," Waylon admonished. "I'm driving here!"

Ryan hastily settled back in his seat, and buckled his safety belt. "Okay, okay," he said, taking a deep breath and attempting to regain his composure. He exhaled through pursed lips, then sighed happily. "This is going to be the best road trip ever!" He glanced over the Monty Burns in the back seat.

The old man said nothing, and his mouth was set in a prim line, but there was a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Ryan saw it. To some, it would've been too subtle, but Ryan knew a smile when he saw one. He felt his own grin widen in return.

Burns raised an eyebrow, then examined his tattered fingernails.

He reached into Waylon's day bag, removed a file, and began to smooth them. After a moment, he flicked his eyes over Ryan. "I will tolerate such a deviation in our course, Waylon, if it brings joy to your son."

Waylon gave Monty a wink. "Don't get all sentimental on me, Monty. We wouldn't want people to think you were becoming soft in your old age."

Burns made a coughing sound that almost passed as a laugh.

"A travesty, were it to occur. Fortunately, it shall not. Oh, and the boy, your son, shall he be staying with us then?"

Waylon glanced at Ryan; and Ryan returned the look. It was a topic neither of them had discussed much since they started out.

"If he wants to," Waylon replied. "I've extended the offer."

Ryan patted his father's arm. "I think he'll stay, at least for a while," Ryan replied with a smirk.

"Then it is once again as it should be," replied Burns from the back seat.

With that, the small, unorthodox family made their way west, to California; following the gold-pink haze of the setting sun.


	18. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes**

My first thought for this was a period piece, a childhood story of how Burns went from being "Happy" to the miserly and unpredictable tyrant in the show. I ruled that out right away. There simply wasn't enough ideas in my head for me to make a compelling story.

I decided on a split-narrative piece instead.

That being said, this story was whittled down significantly. Lots of 'darlings' to be killed, so to speak. Less can be more, and the original draft got fairly convoluted and slow towards the end. See, instead of just having Wainwright's journals and the present timeline, about 3/4s of the way through a third narrative was introduced: Charles / Monty Burns' journal. Those were all removed from the final cut. They slowed things down, confused the reader, got in the way.

Near the beginning there was also a scene where Ryan and Waylon went to visit Waylon's mother on their way out of town. That was cut very early one because it slowed everything down, and didn't help anything.

There's a certain pace, a footing, that must be maintained to keep the reader's interest. Nothing's worse than things feeling like they're coming to a head, then it levels out again. That would be like going up the first hill of a roller coaster, only to discover a gentle slope gradually going back down. All the Reader's excitement and anticipation wasted. I hate that, and I'm not going to put other people through it. All Burns' journal entries were deleted, and condensed down to two letters that you read at the end.

A significant number of Wainwright's entries were pulled out as well.

The little inside joke there was the sheets of paper on the floor of the entryway of Belledouleur: the pages I removed.

I had significantly more material on him: his obsession with dark magic, the depths of his depravity, his belief that consuming hearts of the strong would keep him alive, his laudanum (opium) addiction. A conversation between Burns and Wainwright took place regarding the laudanum:

"That errant stuff will be the death of you grandfather."

"Nonsense, boy. You'll find me long enduring still."

The showdown at Belledouleur was much more intense at the end in the original draft.

 _CMB: swings his cane at Ryan_

 _RS: blocks w/silver candlestick holder_

 _CMB: tired of ryan deflecting his attacks draws a sword from his cane sheath. yells at WS: "If you ever loved me you'll finish the boy!"_

 _WS: "I can't."_

 _CMB: "Damn you all, I'll send this demon back to hell where it belongs." raises his sword -and- cleaves the candlestick holder from RS's grasp._

 _[omitted]_

 _CMB: loses his strength, collapses, realization dawning that he was ready to slay his lover's son. "What have I done? I've finally become the monster he wanted me to be." CMB begs they leave him._

Yes, exciting, but a bit over done, I felt. Ryan is, after all, just a kid. I want to actually have him form a bond with Waylon, and eventually Burns as well. And the whole "Burns angst" is a trope that's been done in spades. I like the simpler ending better.

Belledouleur, for those of you who don't speak French, means "Beautiful Agony," or "Beautiful Pain." The town, Mortrouge means "Red Death," a nod to Edgar Allen Poe's short story of the same name. Wainwright's wolfhound, Wildfell, was so named from Anne Bronte's "Tenant of Wildfell Hall." I found myself inspired by the gothic once again. I wanted something dark, and unsettling, especially the few scenes of Wainwright's treatment towards young Charles. Violence and brutality can be shocking, but more unpleasant can be the idea of someone who is utterly devoid of empathy. Graphic violence is almost always less shocking than the cruelty of mental manipulation. Wainwright is a narcissist, and sociopath. He's not a tragic figure, and there's no past that made him into a monster. He was born that way, he died that way; a villain in the truest sense of the word.

I really hope no one relates to him.

On a more pleasant note: I had a wonderful time looking at pictures of abandoned old plantations. If you want to see what I envision the interior of BelleDouleur to look like, several photos can be found on my Facebook author's page: **ChequeRootLurks**. Due to TOS, I can't post the URL here, but it's easy enough to find.

Beyond this page are two deleted scenes I did want to share. I hope you enjoy them.

Thanks for reading this!

It's always a pleasure to write for You!

~ Muse


	19. Deleted Scene: Alternate Ending

**Author's Notes**

For those of you who read "Supercritical Arrangement" you will remember that towards the beginning Preston Tucci received a pair of Elgin cutlass pistols as a gift. And then, if you read that story, you'll notice they were hardly ever mentioned again in it. This was not a gaff on my part, or the inclusion of an unnecessary prop. I potentially have plans for them and couldn't see a better time to introduce them.

This scene alludes back to them.

The reason I removed this scene was because I felt it didn't enhance the story I was currently telling. If my readers are not familiar with Preston or Antoine, or the incidents with Rhonda, why am I bringing in these random players at the end? Who are they? Long-time Readers will know who Rhonda LeBlanc, Preston Tucci, and Antoine Radson are but why should the new Reader care? Answer: they probably shouldn't. - Thus, reason #1 to remove this scene.

Reason #2 was for the sake of keeping in character. Waylon Smithers would -not- be having this sort of discussion in front of his son. It's hush-hush "Burns business" and Waylon is far too discrete.

I also couldn't think of Ryan responding well to the idea that his father and Burns were okay with someone being chained (literally) to a desk in India. Ryan could reasonably freak out about it, and it would undo the progress made in Waylon and Ryan's father-son relationship. Ryan also doesn't like guns...

(Oh, and Preston has PTSD that he's bravely working through after getting shot. Waylon's aware of it, and would've handled this conversation more delicately.)

So, this was dropped for all those reasons.

* * *

 **ALTERNATE ENDING - Deleted Material**

-was interrupted by the sound of a call coming in through the Durango's phone receiver.

Waylon answered it, and once the speaker identified himself as "Umed" he quickly switched it from speaker to his Bluetooth headset. Umed, the supervisor of a nuclear power plant in India. Just another humble expansion of Burns Consolidated Worldwide.

After a quick, and rather hushed conversation, Waylon disconnected. "I'm going to have to call Antoine and Preston," he explained, raising his head towards Burns. "It appears Rhonda's off her chain."

Ryan put his hands on Waylon's seat. "Who's Rhonda?"

Waylon tapped a hand on the wheel. "Oh, just a shared employee who happened to be outsourced to India a while back. She was working as the plant manager over there, but has decided to go awol."

"I see."

Ryan sat back, as Waylon placed a quick call. The line connected, and the lean face of a young man with rumpled hair, and clearly sitting in his living room, filled the small media screen in the console.

"Waylon… hi."

The man, apparently Preston as near as Ryan could figure, ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. "What's up?" he asked, confused.

Waylon shrugged as much as he could safely while driving. "Well, we had a little incident in India, and Rhonda's off the chain."

A cheerful voice interrupted from somewhere behind Preston. "That's a shocker! I've been saying that for years!"

Preston turned away from his screen. "Hush up, Antoine!" he hissed.

"Say hi to Waylon for me!" the voice, the unseen 'Antoine' crowed.

Preston rolled his eyes. "Antoine says hi," he announced to Waylon. "So… when you say off the chain…"

"Her handler went to take her for her morning walk, and the links were hacksawed through. We have no idea where she went."

Preston paled visibly. "So she could be… anywhere…"

Waylon gave an apologetic nod. "Yes. I think it might be premature to worry, but you might want to consider upping security measures, just in case. If I were you, I'd be possibly considering buying a gun."

Antoine leaned into the frame behind Preston. "We have those pirate cutlass pistols," he interjected.

Preston shoved Antoine away. "No, that's not happening. No one is giving you a gun. Look, Waylon, we'll have to talk about this more later." Preston turned, and before he disconnected, Waylon heard him and Antoine squabbling about the pistols. The line went dead, the screen went dark.

Waylon sighed inwardly and readjusted the review mirror.

Burns' voice suddenly cut in from the back. "Dammit, Smithers, we missed our turn!" He gestured over his shoulder at an exit ramp heading north. "Springfield is that way!"


	20. Deleted Scene: Burns likes men?

**Author's Notes**

There has been speculation in the fandom, and I tend to agree, that Monty Burns is bisexual. He's been shown to flirt with men as easily as he flirts with women, and seems completely unconcerned over it. In my first uploaded story, "Nuclear Attraction," Burns says to Waylon Senior: "I've enjoyed the conquest of both fair sexes, and am clearly none the worse for it."

In the final version "Revelations," if one looks between the lines, one can see evidence that might support the idea Burns and Lawrence Harlgrove had more-than-friends relationship in Burns' teen years.

In this piece, that vague allusion is shattered, and any suspicions about Burns' bisexuality and his interests towards Lawrence are completely confirmed.

It was removed because, well, this is a story of how Burns came to be who he is - and of Ryan and Waylon getting to know each other. It was never supposed to be a story about Burns' sexuality, and this part was pulled because it ventured too far away from the primary narrated objective.

* * *

 **DELETED SCENE - Burns' sexuality**

 _April 9th, 1898._

 _Charles approached me today, a look of consternation on his face. I was hardly in the mood for interruptions, but I humored him. He has become, after all, a young master of Belledouleur himself. He shall be departing for Yale come fall. Courtesy at least dictates I listen to his concerns._

 _I bade him sit, and he did. He's become quite the handsome young man, lean and chiseled, with his dark hair flowing freely about his shoulders when he's not tied it back. Stunning, one might say. I've watched with great intrigue the way he courts the ladies. He has all the makings of a true southern gentleman: the charm, the social graces. Combine that with the same ruthless intellect as my own, and I am proud to say he's the perfect specimen that ever could be created._

 _Last summer, he spent great time and interest in a young woman from Colien, the daughter of a wealthy landowner. I was hoping he might chose to take her as his wife. I believe her father and I both were, but alas, it was not to be. I am fine with that. Aside from children, there is little Evelyn provided me with that I could not attend to on my own, or live without._

 _The boy, I should say man now, knotted his long fingers in apprehension. I had no idea what could possibly disquiet him so. After waiting a moment for him to reveal the source of this dis-ease, I finally rapped my cane on the floor and commanded his attention. "Out with it Charles!" I demanded. "What on earth has caused you such worriment?"_  
 _He met my eyes, unflinching. Good, good. He's getting the look of the eagles yet._

 _"It is Harlgrove's son," he began._

 _"Edmond's boy? Lawrence? What of him?" It had been a long time since I'd had occasion to think of Harlgrove. That man, and his preachy upstanding ways that always sought to intrude in my quiet domain. He would speak of charity, and lawfulness to such a degree that my stomach churned at the thought. Why he'd chosen me as his pet project those years ago, I'll never know. His attempts at solicitation served little than irritation; and yet at the level of manners and etiquette I was still obligated to invite him each December to the festivities at my home._

 _This past December, he had brought his son, a single youth Charles age, by the name of Lawrence. I had observed the two mingling, but had not given it thought again… until this moment._

 _Charles hesitated. Unusual. He was not one to keep his mind from me. I had thought I'd done too thorough a job of shaping him for him to be so reticent. I scrutinized his face, his eyes, then it dawned upon me._

 _"The nature of your friendship with him, is it then? Something you find both fetching and disconcerting in one?" I leaned forward on my cane, bringing my faces inches from his. "Do you… desire him, boy?"_

 _Charles did not move his head, but his eyes flittered down for a second. In that little gesture, I had my answer._

 _"To the exclusion of women?" I pushed, gently._

 _He raised his eyes. "To the equal of women," he confessed._

 _Ah, so the boy has no great preference then? And who truly cares? Intriguing._

 _"So what then causes you such trouble? Is Lawrence aware of your thoughts?"_

 _Charles raised his head. "Father, it is Lawrence himself who first gave me pause to consider them. The boy is reserved in his private nature, and open in women for sport, but I am given to realize he fancies me over any of them."_

 _I leaned back, to give Charles more space. "So now the question remains. Do you want him, boy?"_

 _Charles' face contorted, flashing through so many unspoken words and emotions that I didn't bother to keep track. Finally, he settled on one. "It's not natural."_

 _I gave a mocking laugh. "Natural? Bah, what are the laws of nature but rules for governing the beasts in the field, and lesser men? We are exempt from such things, you and I. You are a Burns! It is your right to go where you wish, do what you wish… take whom you wish."_

 _"But," I added, pressing close once again, "I will impress upon you one caveat. Discretion, in all things. If you deign to use Harlgrove's boy for your own amusement, be sure it is not you who takes the fall. Lay to rest any foolish, romantic notions. The only law of nature we have to follow is that of the supreme predator: solitary, private, and powerful. Take this boy, and when you've had your fun, cast him aside. Do not let yourself be drawn into trappings of pleas and emotions. If you need to, you have my blessings to ruin him." I chuckled. "If fact, if you get the opportunity to ruin his father in the process, I'd bless that little act as well."_

 _So thinking, I ordered Charles to take his leave of me. I have little worry that he'll handle his personal affairs without incident. I care nothing about what he does in his private life, whom he chooses to pursue. I am not concerned that he will bring shame on either of us. He is too confident and too proud himself these days to risk it now._

 _The boy has been a success in every definition of the word!_

 _And now, I must get back to my research._

 ** _Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. April 9th, 1898_**


End file.
